


A Natural Conclusion

by meshkol (ashernorton)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Acquaintances to Friends to Lovers, Alcohol Consumption by Adults, Anal Sex, Blended family, Brief Draco/OMC, Brief Scene of Racism/Racist Language, Community: harrydracobang, Consensual Aphrodisiac Use, Frottage, Gay Draco Malfoy, Hand Jobs, Harry Potter & Blaise Zabini Friendship, Harry Potter Epilogue Compliant, Harry-centric, Harry/Draco Big Bang 2018, Healthy Relationships, Hermione Granger & Draco Malfoy Friendship, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Occasional Law/Politics Discussion, POC Harry Potter, Pansexual Harry Potter, Past Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy, Past Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Relationship of Convenience, Slow Burn, Smut, Still Married, Unconventional Families, brief Harry/OMC - Freeform, coming to terms with sexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-03 13:20:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 51,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15819705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashernorton/pseuds/meshkol
Summary: Harry’s happy with his life twenty-two years later.  He has his job as the Head of the DMLE (albeit with a bit too much bureaucratic nonsense for his tastes), his not-really wife (and her incorrigibly charming shit of a boyfriend), and his three children (plus Scorpius Malfoy, who’s somehow become the fourth child in their brood).  The only thing that’s missing is a partner, though not for a lack of trying on his part.  However, the assignment of one case to Barrister Draco Malfoy – a polite and cordial acquaintance on the peripheral of Harry’s life – leads to a deep friendship and the slow realisation that the partner he’s been waiting his whole life for has been standing right in front of him all along.





	1. An Untoward Assignment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Marshview](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marshview/gifts).



> Written for the [HarryDraco Big Bang](https://harrydracobang.tumblr.com/). Thank you to the glorious mods for both putting this bang on and being so patient! You are absolute treasures.
> 
> Beta'd by [Marshview](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marshview/profile) and [Kit](https://everyoneinspaceisgay.tumblr.com/). You are both phenomenal and I adore you both. Thank you for making this rubbish readable!
> 
> Embedded art credited to [Marshview once again](https://marshview-lim.tumblr.com/) as well as [theacebard](http://theacebard.tumblr.com/). Both of you did the most lovely and amazing art, and I am in utter awe of both of you. If I had a single gram of your respective talents, I would be an unstoppable force of nature.
> 
> Warning: there is a brief, passing mention of a case where a child is killed. This is, by no means, a huge part of the story -- it's a single sentence -- but I (and the mods) wanted to bring this to the attention of any reader.
> 
> Please enjoy!

#### One

_Sunday, 01 November 2020_

 

Hermione fire-calls him in his office at half-five, just as he is preparing to leave for the day.

At the sound of her voice, Harry can’t help but let out a small groan, because he’s been at work since four in the morning dealing with a mass-population panic in regards to Britain housing the International Confederation of Wizards for the annual conference. It’s a right nightmare trying to sort out everything, especially since twelve of the countries are under a lot of scrutiny for not accepting recent international law changes in prisoner treatment, which _naturally_ means that Magical Britain is in a state of protest (which is starting to toe close to the edge of breaking the Statute of Secrecy, if he’s perfectly honest). To add on to that pile of rubbish, amongst others, there’s the massive issue of Magical Denmark being at war with Sweden – the arse-pain that comes with providing a safe, neutral country where assassination attempts will hopefully be thwarted is beyond all conceivable measure.

Being the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, he’s trying to dissect the nuances into a solvable problem, since the last time the conference had been held in Britain was in 1994, back when Dumbledore had been the Supreme Mugwump and the Second War hadn’t even technically started yet. He’d tried following that Head’s notes, but it’s a wonder how Britain isn’t _still_ smarting from the clear clusterfuck that had likely been, and therefore he’s had to start practically from scratch. Which, admittedly, is probably a good thing, since Muggle technological advancements in the past decade make 1994 look like the Middle Ages.

As if guilty, Hermione rambles, “I am _so_ sorry, Harry, but I really need you to come to my office for a moment, and I promise not to keep you too long. I have to get home myself, you know, so Ron doesn’t end up eating chocolate digestives for supper instead of his veg.”

She does sound rather harried, which is to be expected – Hermione Granger-Weasley isn’t herself if she doesn’t sound harried, and being Minister of Magic comes with its own set of mad guidelines – and so with a put-upon sigh, he runs his palms down his face tiredly and grabs a few files to take home for some light work before heading to the Floo. She’s backed out of the flames but kept the connection open, so he steels his stomach and steps into the fire, clenching his teeth during the thankfully short trip and barely stumbling into Hermione’s office.

He takes a seat in front of her desk, relieved that she’s sat in the chair next to his instead of behind her desk, because that means Harry isn’t in trouble for something (which is a common enough occurrence, unfortunately, with both her and her predecessor). As he settles himself, he lets out yet another tired sigh and says, “Alright, give it to me.”

Hermione smooths her hands down her knee-length pencil skirt absently as she replies, “Okay, so you know how the Wizengamot is going to be hearing the case of Malcolm Delby and Winkham International in two months?”

“Yeah,” Harry replies, curiosity winning out over his exhaustion. The Winkham trials are the least of his concerns to be honest, considering it’s a cut-and-dry case with a half-decent barrister, and the ICW is a bigger priority. The trial is an Auror and Magical Law Office concern, not Harry’s specifically. “What of it?”

“Well, I have a massive favour to ask about the barrister in charge of the prosecution,” Hermione tells him, a twinge of something strange colouring her tone. Perhaps it’s apprehension or, more likely, caution, which means that Harry probably isn’t going to like her favour. “Normally I wouldn’t interfere with the selection of barrister – it’s Alice’s office now, not mine, and she’s been running it splendidly for the past year. It’s just...I already know that she’s going to select Julian for the prosecution despite other options being available, and since I’m Minister, I can’t officially make a recommendation without it being seen as a conflict of interest. Though that’s daft, considering who I want to lead the prose—”

Harry blinks, then warily asks, “You want me to recommend Malfoy, don’t you?”

She pauses for a minute, brown eyes wide with surprise, and then she smiles sheepishly. “Yes, Harry, I do. You actually have control over the final verdict of the selection of barristers in the court of law, being the Head of the DMLE, and I really do believe in a professional standing that Draco is certainly the most capable of handling such a high-profile case.”

Harry thinks about it for a moment. Sure, it is true that Malfoy’s a truly gifted barrister – and most in the DMLE believe that he should’ve been made Head of the MLO when Hermione had been elected to her ministerial position, rather than Merryweather, but general politics and Merryweather’s seniority won out over Malfoy’s overwhelming inter-DMLE support – but Harry isn’t sure if Draco Malfoy is exactly the best option for the Winkham trials.

“Hermione, are you sure that you think Malfoy should head the Winkham case?” he tentatively questions, immediately feeling defensive as her face darkens and lips tighten in a thin white line. “I’m only being the Devil’s advocate here, but you have to admit that it’ll probably cause chins to wag if he’s selected. They’ll say he’s biased, and if he loses and Delby walks...”

Hermione scoffs and mutters, “He _will_ win the case.” Then, more professionalism infused into her cool voice, she fervently continues, “That’s why it’s so important that Draco gets assigned this case, Harry! Everyone with any sense knows that it’s a clean-cut trial for the office – Delby will go to Azkaban, and Winkham International will be disbanded and its funds returned to the victims’ families. But think of the ramifications behind it! Draco Malfoy, exonerated Death Eater and part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, whose immediate family still holds outspoken and outdated views on Muggles, as the lead barrister for the Winkham trials! First off, it will finally prove to many people in the Ministry _and_ the public that he’s not a pure-blood supremacist like his parents or extended family, but it will also get him the recognition that he rightly deserves. I love Alice Merryweather to bits, Harry, but Draco _deserved_ that position as Head, and the only thing that kept him from it is lingering distrust from the public about his past. It needs to stop, and this is the most prolific way to do it in such a dramatic fashion.” She pauses, and then adds with a quick grin, “Not to mention, he’ll utterly abolish the defence regardless of what his personal opinion may or may not be. I still swear that he’s a better barrister than I ever was, and I’ll swear it to my grave.”

Harry can’t help but agree with her on a fair few of her points, particularly about the ramifications of Malfoy taking lead on the Winkham trial, but on that last point he has to respectfully disagree, and he says as much. “Not to sell Malfoy short or anything, because we all know that he’s a whopping good barrister, but you’re certainly on the top of the pedestal when it comes to legal authority. I can’t name another witch or wizard in history that has reformed as much as you have since the founding of the Ministry, and _hasn’t_ started a war over it. Malfoy’s good, but he’s not to your level.”

“ _Please_ , Draco was just as instrumental at changing those outdated laws as I was, if not more so; he simply didn’t get as much acknowledgement as warranted since I was primary barrister for the reforms,” she argues, though she looks very much mollified by Harry’s verbal trust in Malfoy’s skills. “I know that you have your doubts about him, and admittedly he’s a bit too far right to my liking on many things, but that’s why his help was so paramount. If it hadn’t been for his assistance in the legalities, pure-bloods all over the country would’ve accused me of blatantly changing laws in Muggle and Muggle-born favour rather than accepting it, no matter how grudgingly. He set the tone of language, and he made it mutually beneficial to all parties to keep another war from breaking out. You know me, Harry – I don’t exactly play nice or follow the rules of politics, and half of my proposed legislation would’ve failed at the Wizengamot or referendums if I had been allowed to compose them.”

Harry snorts, completely aware of that latter fact. While Hermione is a good politician and plays her cards well, she’s still known as an unrepentant idealist who doesn’t much care for the old ways of doing things. If she had been in charge of the legislation reforms by herself, it would’ve called for the complete obliteration of the old, prejudiced culture that had bred multiple wars, thousands of deaths, and severe mistrust of the Muggle world.

And then she would’ve started another war, most likely.

Harry has to concede, because when he had read Hermione’s final drafts (and eventually heard them in court, since he had been an Auror and it had been his job to enforce the new laws), it had practically _screamed_ Malfoy. Malfoy had had a huge part in drafting the linguistics of said proposals, which is a part of public record, because otherwise a lot of the other high-and-mighty pure-bloods would’ve rejected _any_ legislation that called for Muggle and Squib rights, let alone any other magical creatures’.

Of course, they might’ve voted in favour anyway, because it’s practically political suicide to vote against the Golden Trio (to Harry and Hermione’s chagrin, and Ron’s amusement), but the grumbling had been muted because Malfoy had been attached to it. The Malfoy family had managed to pick up quite a bit of their social standing after the war, due to it being ‘cunning and wise’ to switch sides at the last minute to back Harry (and, of course, Harry’s subsequent testimonies on behalf of two Malfoys during trial, Lucius excepted), so having any kind of Malfoy support is instrumental when it comes to passing potentially controversial laws.

Well, that and Malfoy’s friendship with Hermione, but anyway.

“Look,” Hermione says tiredly, rubbing her eyes with the pads of her fingers, “I just want you to think about it, okay? And I won’t be mad if you decide to go with Julian instead of Draco...Merlin knows that Julian will sink the Quaffle, too.” Harry sniggers at the Quidditch reference, and she pulls her hands away from her eyes so she can half-heartedly glare at him.

However, she must see something in his face that makes her stop her inevitable _men_ or _Quidditch fanatics_ or _please just think about it_ remarks, and a tentative smile creeps onto her lips. “You’ve already bloody decided, haven’t you? You’ve been listening to me whinge about this for what seems like an hour and you’ve already damn well decided, you absolute fiend.”

Harry shrugs. To be honest, he’d been convinced the second Hermione had asked, all the ramifications be damned. Sure, Hermione had listed off a multitude of reasons about why it’s a good political move on Harry’s part (and Malfoy’s, to be fair), and he knows without a doubt that Malfoy won’t let his personal ideals get in the way of _winning_. All it takes is Hermione simply asking him, because there is no one in the Ministry who knows the capabilities of barristers in the MLO better than his best friend. If Hermione is vehemently confident in Malfoy’s success, then he will make the recommendation.

“Well, you made such a good case on his behalf, and as your employee, I must oblige by your wisdom, Minister,” he says with a grin, and then quickly dodges the book she throws at his head with frighteningly accurate aim. It’s such a pity she had hated flying so much in school, because he knows that she would’ve made a brill Chaser with her aim.

“Oh quiet, you,” she grumbles, but a satisfied smile blossoms on her face. She continues to ramble happily, “He’s going to be brilliant, you know, and this will be _so_ good for him to be assigned this case, and I know he wanted it really bad. I really do hope that he takes it, though I can’t imagine that he’d decline. He’ll probably welcome the distraction.”

Harry frowns and again gives into his curiosity. “What d’you mean, he might not take it? After that spiel that you just shot out, I figured he was frothing at the mouth for the chance to take it. Why would he decline?”

Hermione gives him that special look, the one that tells Harry that she thinks he’s thick. “Harry, his father died a month ago. Complications from type-two Scrofungulus that he contracted a few weeks beforehand. You should know this – you signed the paperwork for his leave of absence.”

While Lucius Malfoy has never been one of Harry’s favourite people in the world, before the war or after, he can’t help but feel a twinge of grief at the man’s passing. He wonders how Scorpius is doing with the news, because Albus’s best friend is quite fond of his grandfather, and it’s upsetting that such a young child has to deal with his grandfather dying while sequestered away at Hogwarts.

“Right,” Harry says simply, not knowing what else to say.

Luckily, Hermione seems to know where Harry’s mind is at, and her eyes soften. “Scorpius is doing okay, considering the circumstances. Draco and Rose owled me about him and they’ve both said that he’s still doing well in classes and staying upbeat. Draco took him out of school for the funeral and the subsequent weekend, and it looks like he’ll be okay. I’m glad...he’s such a bright, lovely boy, and I hate the idea of anything causing him grief.”

Harry sighs for the umpteenth time that evening and replies, “Same. How’s Malfoy doing then?”

“Better than Scorpius, I’d gather,” Hermione admits. “He took a week off work, as you very well know, but he came back just as determined as he was before the news, so I figure he’s taking it alright. They’d had a bit of a falling out over Astoria and their more liberal views regarding Scorpius’ upbringing, but Lucius was still his dad, and I’m sure he’s upset about it. Nevertheless, I think the distraction of the Winkham trials will occupy his time enough until Scorpius comes home for the hols.”

Harry nods.

Thinking of Lucius dying makes Harry think of the untimely death of Astoria Malfoy, whose funeral he had attended in June of the previous year. He can’t help but fondly remember the frail woman he had met quite a few times over the course of his tentative acquaintance of Draco Malfoy, the lovely and quick-witted Astoria. He had always liked her, honestly, because while she had been a proper pure-blood when it came to traditions and the sort, she’d still been a breath of fresh air in regards to her political and personal views. He also very much approved with how she and her husband had raised Scorpius to be a tolerant fellow, rather than a repeat of Lucius’ mistakes with his own son. Furthermore, she had also been quite full of dry wit and amusing stories, and he had always been willing to share a glass of wine with her while their respective spouses were soaking up the glamour of an official function and networking to their heart’s content.

He can’t imagine what Scorpius (and honestly Malfoy himself) is going through, losing Astoria and then Lucius within roughly a year of each other. Harry knows how hard it is to handle such loss without falling apart from personal experience, and he figures that it’s a testament to their resilience that they can both pick up their lives without becoming shells of themselves.

Especially Malfoy. Even a blind man would’ve seen how much Malfoy adored Astoria.

“I’ll put in the request tomorrow, right when I come in, since I already have the requests for recommendation,” Harry finally says, forcing himself out of his maudlin thoughts as he looks at the clock. Nearly half an hour has gone by since he’d stepped into Hermione’s office, and he needs to get home to start supper. Ginny is due back from the _Prophet_ at around seven, and he wants to take a stab at a recipe given to him by Charlotte Dursley a few months back. If he can manage to make the raspberry ham even half as good as hers is, he’ll consider it a success, and Ginny will certainly appreciate the effort.

Hermione seems to realise that he is looking for an out to their unofficial meeting, and she shoots him a quick smile. “Thank you so much for this, Harry,” she says, gratefulness in her even tone. “He’s not going to disappoint you, and I think you’ll be pleased with the political follow-on just like I will.”

“I reckon you’re right,” Harry concedes, standing up with his files grasped steadily in his hands as Hermione begins bustling around for her own files to take home. The two of them make steady progress out of the bustle of the Ministry, which is finally easing down a bit as employees and visitors begin heading home, and as they make their way to the Apparition points, Harry asks, “You still doing dinner this Saturday?”

“Our Saturday dinners are the only thing I’m looking forward to until the children come home from Hogwarts, you daft bastard,” she retorts with a playful grin, knocking him with her elbow gently and nearly sending the mountain of files in her arms flying before she manages to keep a hold on them.

“Excellent, as long as Ron cooks. You’re utter rot in the kitchen, y’know,” he teases, kissing her cheek with the ease of familiarity and then waving a cheeky good-bye when she attempts to kick him with one pointed shoe.

“Good-bye, Harry, and don’t forget to talk to Alice!” she calls out to him, and he grins at her for a moment before Apparating home.

 

—

 

_Monday, 02 November 2020_

 

The next morning, Harry takes a quick detour to the MLO, sipping his coffee.

He’s still half asleep, after his long night reading files and planning for the conference, but he still has a lot of work to do before he can really get a good night’s sleep. The caffeine of his coffee (his third already) isn’t really doing a lot to keep his bleary eyes open, truly speaking of his growing tolerance to it, and he wishes there was a way to pep himself up without resorting to potions or charms. A caffeine addiction is much more manageable and safe than a dependence on magic or tonics, after all.

He makes his way past the receptionist – “Go on in, Head Potter! She’s not in a meeting right now and will be happy to see you!” – and the mix of barristers and solicitors all knee-deep in paperwork and owls – Malfoy doesn’t even notice him, deep in conversation with Dickens about something or another – before he knocks briefly on Merryweather’s door.

He enters when she calls her greeting and switches his coffee cup to his left when she holds out her dainty hand with a broad, if harried, smile. “Why hello there Harry,” she exclaims in genuine pleasure, giving his hand a quick but solid shake before she motions to the chair in front of her desk. “What a lovely coincidence that you’re here, since I was just about to set up a meeting with Perkins so I could touch bases with you. I’d be pleased if you’d bypass all that rot with official meetings and just make a few recommendations if you have the time, though please, feel free to address your reason for being here first and foremost.”

Luckily for her... “Actually, I’m here about that,” he replies, quickly removing the recommendation paperwork from his robes, thankfully not all mucked up from being in his pockets. He sets the roll down and takes a seat, wondering exactly how she will react to seeing Malfoy’s name on the Winkham trial. He doesn’t figure that she’ll mind much and will see the politics behind such an appointment as quickly as Harry had, but there’s always the possibility of her being against the idea, even by one as open-minded and liberal as Alice Merryweather.  It’s her job that everyone wants Malfoy to take after all.

He can tell when she finds Malfoy’s name, because she frowns just slightly, glancing up at him lightning-quick, and then sighs. “You do understand that while I know he’s the most qualified barrister I have now that Hermione’s gone on all political, and while I think this case could very well make him into a true icon of equal rights, the backlash of this is going to be brutal in the public, and the MLO will get the brunt of it.”

Harry shrugs absently, taking another deep pull from his coffee. After he swallows, he answers, “I know, but this is a good opportunity for both him _and_ for the MLO. It’s always the priority for this office to not be partisan, to only be seen with the facts, and I expect that the last of the grumbling from the far left _and_ right will be muted entirely when Barrister Malfoy wins this case. Besides, I don’t think he’s even capable of losing a court case, honestly.”

Merryweather sighs again and then signs the document with a quick flourish, drying the ink with an absent wave of her wand before rolling it back up and sealing it. “It’s going to be an interesting couple of months, that’s for sure. We’re sure to get _loads_ of death threats.”

Harry laughs. “No more so than usual, I’m sure,” he tells her with amusement. It’s true that the MLO is horribly disliked by everyone, from all ends of the political spectrum as well as from everyone with their own personal agenda. It doesn’t matter if it’s someone who wants Muggles to be exterminated or another who wants Mondays to be an official holiday every week, someone is always furious about something the MLO is (or isn’t) doing. Death threats and hexes come with the office, and it’s sort of a rite of passage to receive a load of them in the course of working there. In fact, there’s a board that takes up an entire wall of the office with the names of every employee who’s _ever_ worked in the MLO, dating back three centuries, and next to every name is the number of threats that individual received during their employment.

Hermione, naturally, is the record holder. She’ll probably have the record for years to boot, because the woman had passed an obscene amount of legislation in the seventeen years she had worked there, infuriating all of the more vocal opposition. Harry’s _still_ somewhat baffled that she had managed to get the majority vote for Minister of Magic, considering how universally hated she’s been in various points of her legal career.

Merryweather grins at him with a sparkle in her eyes. “He’ll be positively gleeful when they start coming in, I reckon. He’s made it a personal mission to beat out Hermione, and this case might put him in the running for it.” Then she pauses, and dramatically bemoans, “Oh gods, if he passes her up, he’s going to plan the most outrageous and expensive party the office has ever seen! Our extracurricular budget will never survive it!”

Harry’s laughter increases in volume.

By the time they’ve wheezed out the rest of their amusement and wiped their eyes, Merryweather is pink in the face. Still, she gives him a wink and says, “Dearie, I haven’t laughed that hard in years, I’d say, though I have to say that it’ll be a real riot if he does pass her up. Nevertheless, I still need to get my kids in here for their assignments, and just so you know, I’m very on board with Draco taking this case. Yes, my first choice was Julian, just because I didn’t know if it was the right time for Draco to take a case like this, but I do concur with your selection. Anyway, it’d be a right treat if you could stay for it since I’m sure that Draco will either amuse us all by having a coronary or blushing all pretty-like.” Harry raises an eyebrow, and Merryweather snickers. “What can I say? There is nothing more hilarious than seeing that uptight old sod get flustered, since he’s no more prone to outbursts of genuine emotion than Hermione is prone to being biased towards Muggles. It’ll be a lovely show, I assure you.”

Harry, who is actually quite intrigued by this, simply stands up to refill his mug from her personal brewer, feeling much more awake by the promise. He hasn’t seen Malfoy flustered since their school days, as the man seems even more emotionally cut off since being acquitted at his trials two decades ago, and it would definitely be amusing to see his reaction to the news. Hermione is of the impression that he’ll appreciate the case beyond measure (or at least he _had_ wanted it before news of his father’s death had reached him) and it isn’t a secret that Wilson is Merryweather’s choice for barrister in this particular case, so Harry is definitely interested in seeing the impenetrable, professional Draco Malfoy rattled over earning the case that will make his damned career.

As Merryweather steps to the door and calls out the names of five barristers to come to her office, Harry shakes off the thoughts of Malfoy’s inevitable reactions. It isn’t like he can take the piss, either in good fun or true mocking – they aren’t even remotely good enough friends that they can rib each other good-naturedly, and they’re certainly not enemies any longer. More cordial than anything, with a totally professional air that wholly lacks the barbs and genuine hatred of their school-days. The MLO works pretty regularly with the Auror Office, considering Auror testimony is needed fairly consistently in trial, so they’ve been working together for seventeen years. It had been fairly awkward at first, at least on Harry’s end, but by the end of that first year it had all eased itself out. They’re both driven professionals, respectful of the other’s affinity towards their chosen speciality, and the war is over; they don’t need the vitriol of their childhood in their adult lives.

And besides, their children are thick as thieves, whilst Hermione and Malfoy are unconventional friends that take tea and lunch together, so it’s mutually beneficial for the two of them to at least be civil to one another, if only for their mutual family and friends.

The barristers all step in, shooting Harry a glance before focussing all of their attention to Merryweather. Harry lowers his face to his steaming mug, inhaling the scent of slightly burnt workplace coffee that is such a part of the inherent charm of the entire DMLE, and is content to listen to the proceedings without a sound. It doesn’t register to him that the barristers aren’t flustered by his appearance at their assignments. He’s been such a major fixture in these offices since becoming an Auror, and eventually Department Head, that Harry doesn’t really intimidate them anymore, especially the older ones (which the selected barristers are). Twenty-one years is a long time to get used to someone.

“Alright, so I’ve got five assignments here that have just been recommended by Head Potter, and you know the drill: no other assignments ‘til these close out, use any other solicitors and barristers if you need them, talk to me if you need something extra for your case study, and for the love of Merlin, don’t lose your case. We’ve had a perfect record since Hermione was elected, and if we can manage five years of solid wins, she’s promised a budget increase for better damned coffee.”

There is a brief huff of laughter from a few of the people in the room, Harry included, since everyone knows that the inevitable budget increase will _actually_ be due to the amount of litigation needed as the first Death Eaters begin leaving Azkaban on parole. It’s the outer circle members only, people who had just been financially associated or politically active, but there will be an abundance of cases piling up once they start leaving Azkaban en masse. Mostly due to vigilante actions from witches and wizards with a grudge, but also because there will unavoidably be a number of them that’ll end up back in prison for a separate infraction (like money laundering, tax evasion, ignoring new laws regarding Muggles and Muggle-borns...or murder, if Azkaban’s cracked them).

“So here are your assignments! Martin Newberry, the Devonshire trial on Veela trafficking rings...” She hands the relevant file to Newberry, who nods stoically and begins flipping through pages. “Angela Lyons, the Crossey trial on the distribution of Vespa X...” Lyons grins wildly as she snatches the file, pumping her fist in the air with a youthful enthusiasm that is refreshing for a hundred-twelve-year-old woman. “And let’s see, Daniel Tait for the Casas trial on domestic abuse and first-degree murder.” Tait smiles a bit sadly, obviously aware of how emotionally heavy that case will be, but accepts the file with a determined air. It shows his need to bring justice towards the twelve-year-old child who’d attempted to shield his mother from a beating and had died from his injuries, courtesy of his drunkard father.

Then Merryweather looks at the final two barristers in the room, the best and brightest of the MLO, Draco Malfoy and Julian Wilson. Gravely, she begins, “These last two cases are incredibly high-profile, and I’m going to need you both to work very hard on them for a guilty verdict. Not only that, but we also will see a lot of press coverage for both, due to the political ramifications and public sentiment. We _must_ get guilty verdicts in the Wizengamot, or else the laws that have been instated within our country will seem illegitimate and will encourage copy-cat offences that we will be unable to take to court in the future.

“On one hand, we have the Winkham trial, where Muggle-borns were financially targeted to buy properties for business and personal use, and then were tortured and murdered in mysterious ways in said properties by the founder, pure-blood supremacist Malcolm Delby, and his close associates. And on the other hand, we have the York trial, where Potions master Nathan York deliberately altered the Wolfsbane potion he had been selling to multiple establishments across Europe, including St Mungos, and resulted in the horrific deaths of no less than two hundred twenty-three werewolves in seventeen countries in order to conduct genocide against lycanthropes. Both of these minority groups are protected in the eyes of the law, and I know that the two of you will make me proud by bringing these monsters to justice. It is a great honour to be assigned either one of these cases.”

She takes a deep breath, shoots a quick smile at Harry (who thinks she’s being needlessly dramatic), and continues purposely, “Therefore, with my secondary approval, Head Potter has assigned the York case to Julian Wilson and the Wi—’

That’s about as far as she gets before a few things happen all at once. First, Malfoy’s eyes go _very_ wide, the silvery irises surrounded by white, and he blurts quite unbecomingly, “ _Oh gods_.” Then, almost simultaneously, the normally-stoic Martin makes the oddest high-pitched sound that make Harry’s ears pop. And after all this, Lyons lets out an ecstatic whoop and throws her arms around the frozen blond barrister, which seems to break the rest of the ice because the other three throw their arms around him too.

 _There’s_ a bit of rational, normalised behaviour when it comes to Malfoy at least – he’s standing stock still with a slight look of discomfort on his face, considering he has four adults happily congratulating him while enveloping him in their arms (even Wilson, and Harry’s sure that the man’s face will split down the middle due to the size of his grin). Still though, it’s utterly heartening to see Malfoy’s co-workers so happy for him and his assignment, because it’s pretty obvious that this will be the biggest case of Malfoy’s career and make him a shoo-in for Merryweather’s seat whenever she steps down. Well, as long as he gets a guilty verdict, but Harry’s with Hermione: there’s no way Malfoy _won’t_ get it. His pride won’t allow anything else.

Harry knows that Malfoy is almost universally liked in the DMLE, considering that seventeen years of being known as one of Hermione’s closest confidants as well as years of being cordial with Harry due to their children, has really changed the Malfoy name across the Wizarding community. It’s very clear that the rest of the MLO knows what this case will mean for Malfoy, both personally and professionally, and are chuffed to bits that he’s getting this opportunity after years of striving for it.

It’s also obvious that Malfoy isn’t very comfortable with being in the middle of a large hug, since he’s notoriously standoffish and impassive, and Harry can’t help but grin at the sight of it. Especially since the tips of his ears and his cheeks are tinged with pink, either with embarrassment or delight.

Or both.

“Now, now, settle down you lot,” Merryweather shouts over the din, and the other barristers finally disentangle themselves from the twist of bodies, looking a bit sheepish about losing it while in the presence of their Head. “I know you’re all very happy for Draco but keep it down and buy him a bottle of wine instead of smothering the poor man.” Her tone is stern, but everyone in the room can tell that she’s pleased at the display due to the laughter in her eyes as she continues, “You all have your assignments, so get out of my office and make this damn department proud!”

Malfoy stands still in front of Merryweather’s desk as the others smack him on the back (or in Lyons’ case, hug him again), leaving with their files in hand, but they allow him to stay behind, obviously ready to tell the rest of the office about Malfoy’s assignment before the man can talk them out of a pub crawl or something else ‘pedestrian’. Harry stands up to follow them out, stopping at Malfoy’s side and giving him a warm smile.

“You’re going to be brilliant,” Harry tells him quietly, inwardly amused when the fading blush on Malfoy’s pale features rears its head again even more violently. “Send that bastard to jail and take all his money while you’re at it.” A confident smirk begins curving the edges of Malfoy’s shapely lips despite the furious flush, and Harry matches his grin, adding, “If you need anything, anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask. Just crush that fucker in court like we all know you can.”

And with that, he continues out of Merryweather’s office to return to work on the looming ICW conference.


	2. A Languid Moment

#### Two

_Friday, 11 December 2020_

 

Harry’s preparing a quiet, late supper when the Floo chimes in the front room.

He finishes chopping the last of the courgette before he acknowledges it, determined to not wash his hands twice, and quickly rinses his hands before heading towards the fireplace, drying them as he walks. He doubts it’s anything of too much importance – probably Ron either crowing in victory or dramatically furious, depending on how the Cannons-Kestrels match went – and so he doesn’t rush. He’s sure it isn’t work-related, because he’s taken the weekend and subsequent week off since the children will be returning from Hogwarts in two days’ time. He had threatened under pain of (metaphorical) death that he’s not to be disturbed in the last few days of solitude before the explosion of sound courtesy of his kids returning to the lonely Potter Estate.

He reaches the front room and blinks slowly at the face of Draco Malfoy in his Floo, before he asks calmly, “Is there something I can help you with, Barrister Malfoy?”

Malfoy clears his throat and replies, “I know that you are on leave and do not wish to be disturbed, but I need authorisation for a few interviews in regards to the Winkham trials before the proceedings start on the second of January. I don’t have much time to waste, and it requires your signature before I can proceed.”

Harry shrugs, wandlessly lowers the wards, and says, “I suppose it can’t be helped. Come on through, and we can chat over tea.”

He waits until Malfoy’s gracefully stepped out of the Floo and charmed the soot off his clothes (comfortable-looking, but still posh in all blacks and greys) before he resets the wards and beckons Malfoy to follow him back to the kitchen. As they meander their way there, Malfoy looking around Harry’s home with a curious eye, Harry explains, “There’s a pot of tea already brewed in the kitchen, and an open bottle of rosé if you’d prefer that, but you’ll have to fill me in as I make myself supper. I haven’t eaten in forty-eight hours except a single fucking scone, and it will take an act of God or an injured child for me to prioritise anything above food at this point.”

Malfoy snorts. “Don’t you have house-elves to cook for you?”

“Yeah, but I’ve had a hell of a few months and I just want to decompress,” Harry explains, not expecting Malfoy to understand the contentment he feels when he cooks in his kitchen. Cooking is something he takes great joy in, and even though the house-elves would’ve been more than happy to cook up a quick meal for him, he wants to ease himself down from the frightening stress he had felt leading up to the ICW conference. Thank Merlin it’s finally over, with no assassinations or political nightmares to speak of, because now he can take a well-deserved break before dealing with his beloved children during the hols.

“You are a very strange man,” Malfoy states, but there isn’t any heat behind his words. Harry smiles to himself, knowing that Malfoy isn’t exactly wrong on that account – he definitely has his characteristic quirks that not many can understand, and it doesn’t bother him that his company is at a loss. He has nothing to prove to Malfoy anyway, and Harry deserves his personal idiosyncrasies after everything he’s done before, during, and after the war.

They arrive in the kitchen, Harry’s favourite room in the house and a lovely mix between Wizarding and Muggle luxury. It’s a gorgeous space, filled out to Harry’s strict specifications – dark espresso-coloured wood cupboards with white marble tops; clean white walls with a domed, golden-tiled ceiling and dangling light fixtures; stainless steel appliances; a massive cooker with a hob longer than Lily is tall. It’s his safe space, where he can cook and think and relax, and not even the elves use his space since they have a separate kitchen down below.

Harry absently waves a hand at the pot of tea as well as the open bottle of wine on the island, which has a small concave section for two people to comfortably sit down while food is prepared on its surface, before he turns back towards the sink to wash his hands thoroughly. He begins moving around the large space, so very in his element and not a moment of energy or time wasted, as he listens to Malfoy talk. He doesn’t see any issues with drafting up something that will give Malfoy permission to interview a few Death Eaters in Azkaban and tells Draco as much. He barely registers the murmur of thanks or the comfortable silence between them, distracted as he is by greasing a sheet, placing the thin little circles of courgette on said sheet without the slices touching, dabbing them with a homemade tomato sauce that smells like heaven, sprinkling shredded cheese on top before topping each with small dices of yellow pepper and sausage, and then tossing it in the cooker so it can warm through.

He takes a deep breath, the small smile still playing at his lips, before he turns back to the sink and begins the washing-up, hoping to be done before his simple meal is finished cooking. As he works, he hears Malfoy say, “You really do enjoy cooking, don’t you?”

Harry hums in the back of his throat. “I like the cleaning up too, afterwards. I dunno why, but I’ve always been at home in a kitchen. Perhaps I’m part house-elf myself,” he jokes, placing a washed plate in the dishwasher so it can be thoroughly disinfected.

“Of course not,” Malfoy scoffs with an air of amusement. “You’re much too tall to be related to house-elves.”

Harry decides to take that as a compliment. He isn’t incredibly tall, just an average five-foot-nine and only a few inches shorter than Malfoy himself, but it’s more than enough for him. And more than enough to emphasise that he isn’t, in fact, related however distantly to a house-elf. Instead of continuing on with the joke, he states, “I figure it’s a lot like potion making to some. A calming bustle that takes your mind off other troubles or affords you the time to think, depending on preference or difficulty, while also giving you the satisfaction that you’ve created something magnificent from individual bits that are all but inconsequential on their own.” He finishes the last piece of crockery and takes a long pull from his rosé, letting the flavour roll around on his tongue pleasantly before swallowing. He’s always quite enjoyed drinking while cooking, though it’s going to his head rather quickly considering he hasn’t eaten in so long.

Malfoy doesn’t respond to Harry’s words, probably because it would make things highly awkward for them, and neither one of them wants to delve into the past. Instead, Malfoy takes a sip of his own cup of wine and changes the subject. “So where’s your illustrious wife this evening? At the _Prophet_ , changing the world one sports article at a time?”

Harry wipes the worktops as he ponders what he should and shouldn’t say (though he _is_ surprised that Malfoy’s trying to start up a light conversation instead of rushing out as soon as he’d gotten what he’d been after). It’s a private situation between their family and very close friends, and Malfoy’s a barrister. Since what Ginny and Harry are doing is technically illegal per Wizarding laws, Malfoy would have a legitimate case to bring against them both should he pursue it (or if there is any lingering hatred on Malfoy’s end that he wishes to take revenge with, though Harry doubts it, at least for Albus’s sake). Then again, Malfoy _is_ a pure-blood, and likely understands the delicacies in subjects such as this. Harry knows that the illegal nature of Harry and Ginny’s actions won’t be alien to Malfoy, and hell, there’s the distinct probability that he’s even had personal experience with the issue, whether through his parents or even in his own marriage.

Not to mention that Hermione and Malfoy have been having a platonic, mental love affair for the better part of two decades now, so if Hermione trusts Draco Malfoy with every molecule of her being, Harry figures he can as well.

Decided, Harry takes the second stool next to Malfoy and pours himself a generous addition to his wine glass, close enough for the conversation to hold some private weight but far enough that he can’t feel Malfoy’s warmth through his own comfortable clothes.

“You are a barrister and a pure-blood,” Harry starts, making eye contact as he swirls his glass in his left hand under his nose, absently taking in the bouquet of his wine and letting the oxygen taper down the bitterness. “Therefore I know that you can be...discreet.” Vehement interest flashes in those piercing grey eyes before Malfoy manages to quell his physical reaction to the insinuation of juicy gossip, and Harry just smothers his own grin. “I also have my own reasoning behind giving you this information freely, and it’s actually rather beneficial to me as well. So I suppose that, with your assurance of discretion, we can speak freely. I do believe that you owe me for what I’ll be giving you in regards to the latest addition to the trial, anyway.”

Malfoy looks a bit wary but nods once regardless, and both of them take a quiet sip of their wine. Harry waits until Malfoy eventually swallows his mouthful out of basic decency (though it would’ve been hilarious to just blurt it out to see if Malfoy would spit out his wine in shock) before he states calmly, “Ginny is having an affair with Blaise Zabini.”

There’s a minute widening of Malfoy’s eyes but otherwise he gives no other indication of his surprise. It is proof enough that Malfoy’s familiar with extramarital affairs, and Harry figures it is safe to continue without being forced into something drastic, like Obliviating the man of the memory. “I’d like to pick your brain about him, to see what kind of man he truly is outside of the family, because you’ve known him since you were old enough to remember. He’s a good friend of yours, if I’m not mistaken, and since you have seen him grow into the man he is today, you’re one of the most reliable narrators in regards to his character. Merlin knows that Gin isn’t reliable in any way, and my own interactions with the man could be dripping in farce and charm.”

Malfoy’s quiet for a long moment before he asks, “You don’t mind that she’s having an affair? I would have put a fortune on the opposite, in fact.”

Harry smiles. “I will explain our situation if you’ll allow me to question you about Blaise, and I’m sure it’ll be enlightening for the both of us. I know Blaise has been itching to tell you, and I know that you’re tentatively friends with my wife. It’ll do us all a bit of good in the long run, especially since your son already knows.” At Malfoy’s surprised eyebrow, Harry elaborates, “He was at our home for a week before school resumed if you remember, and Blaise is a common fixture in this house. It was inevitable that he would find out, and besides, I doubt Albus can keep any secrets from his best friend.”

Malfoy’s lips curve into a soft smile at the reminder of Albus and Scorpius, thick as thieves in Slytherin House. It’s true that a lot of the decreasing hostility between Harry and Malfoy is in part due to Albus and Scorpius taking to each other so soundly, though Malfoy’s (weird) friendship with Hermione is a good chunk of that too. Sure, Harry and Malfoy will probably never be close friends, but considering that their two children spend the summer holidays swapping back and forth between the Potter Estate and Malfoy Manor, it’s unavoidable that Malfoy will eventually be privy to Ginny and Blaise’s affair. Particularly since Blaise is one of Malfoy’s closest friends, as far as Harry can tell, and likely won’t be able to keep his mouth shut for much longer.

“I suppose that is true,” Malfoy allows, taking yet another sip of his rosé. “I can certainly be discreet about this subject, and it’s not something I haven’t heard before as well. It will be enlightening to finally talk to the idiot about the mysterious girl he’s been fretting about for the past nine months, in any case, since I now know it’s Ginevra Potter.”

Harry can’t help but snicker at that. “Has he been that cagey about it? I am actually quite surprised that he’s stayed quiet this long – you know as well as I do that he can’t keep his mouth shut about his opinions and affections any better than Ron can, and dear Merlin I’ve never seen another human being so willing to display all their affection in public, or as public as their relationship can be. It’s embarrassing to be in the same room with them.”

Malfoy gives Harry an intense look, probably surprised that Harry’s officially confirmed that he has no problem with his wife and her boyfriend draping themselves all over each other in front of him, but Harry figures a part of that is Malfoy simply trying to dissect Harry’s physical responses. “He’s been remarkably close-lipped about it,” Malfoy replies slowly, eyes glittering. “It’s been utterly annoying, since he very much _is_ incapable of keeping his damned mouth shut.” Harry opens his mouth to reply, but Malfoy cuts him off first. “No, I don’t mind giving you some insight to his character. I adore Albus, and while I think your other two children are absolute terrors—” Harry grins. “—I very much wouldn’t like to see Albus hurt in any manner. Especially since I’ve a very good idea of your reservations.”

Harry waves his free arm dismissively. “I don’t care that he was a Slytherin, obviously, and the Zabinis were neutral in the war other than vague politics, so I don’t mind that aspect of him. I doubt he’s a spitting fanatic either...it’s more socially acceptable to be neutral in the public eye, and Blaise is certainly a socialite before anything else. Besides, Gin wouldn’t be with him if he was too right-winged, though she’s not a raving liberal either.”

Malfoy exhales through his nose, though it doesn’t sound contemptuous, before he says, “Blaise is a good man. Vain and proud, of course, and he’s never going to willingly surround himself with Muggles, but he’s a good man. His mother is a right-leaning centrist, so she instilled a lot of those beliefs in him, and she never married a fanatic that could’ve put those thoughts in his head. All during school, he was on the right side of history, but cunning enough to keep under the nose of the Dark Lord’s attention: he refused to associate too heavily with known supporters, but certainly exaggerated his right-leaning views of preserving pure-blood culture as well as the Muggle issue. It kept him comfortable in Slytherin, while also making him aloof enough to where he wasn’t offered the option of joining the Death Eaters.

“Once the war was over, he refused to disappear like most of the Slytherins did, and he genuinely supported many of the measures that Hermione and I worked to push through the Wizengamot.” He hesitates for a moment, his eyes flickering towards Harry with a slight air of apprehension, before he continues, “His political views are fairly similar to mine, in that he believes that our culture and heritage should be celebrated and honoured, but that if a person shows magical traits, that makes them a witch or wizard just the same as any other. He believes in the clear, non-negotiable separation of the Wizarding and Muggle worlds, as much as it can be at any rate with their breeding like rabbits and technological advancements.”

Very clearly, he adds, “What I do want to emphasise is that he is _not_ his mother, in reference to the...let’s see...deaths surrounding the twelve husbands she’s had over the past half-century. Blaise grew very fond of quite a few of his step-fathers, and was devastated when they died, and besides, it is not in his character to actively seek to murder a spouse or...paramour for their wealth. He is a notorious dater, this is true, but that’s only because he’s never found anyone that can stomach him for longer than a few months. It’s why I was so curious about his current companion, since it’s the longest relationship he’s ever had. More than anything, Blaise wants a family – a wife, a bundle of kids, and the high life. He’s part Italian, after all, and Italians are infamous for big families.”

Malfoy swirls his wine absently and finishes quietly, “He’s a good man, and he’s very similar to your wife, on the outside at least. I’d have to see the two of them together to be sure, but I’m sure that their similarities would ensure contentment.”

Harry, pleased at the confirmation of his own thoughts behind Blaise (that had been fleshed out by Ginny’s biased thoughts, his thorough background checks, and his own interactions with the bloke), hops up with his glass of wine to check on his meal. He peeks into the cooker, satisfied that it’s done, and then takes a long swallow of his wine before bustling about so he can take it from the cooker. The smell hits him like a train – he’s been hungry for so long that it had faded to a dull ache, barely even noticeable, but the smell of the cooked food makes his stomach roar to life. Luckily, the banging around masks the sound of his stomach growling in protest.

As he transfers the little courgette pizzas to a large platter lined with kitchen paper, he airily replies, “Thank you for telling me all of that. It confirmed my own opinion and observations, and now I know without a doubt that his affections are genuine. I really think I would kill him if he hurt her, you know?” He pauses for a moment, rinsing the sheet with water to soften up some of the baked tomato sauce that had dripped over the side, and waits until he’s dried his hands once again before he adds with a grin, “If you stay for a little longer, you can see it in action yourself. They should be back within the hour, and besides, I think I promised an explanation.”

Malfoy eyes gleam. “Imagine the expression on his face. I shall have to tease him mercilessly for this. He’s been denying that he found her attractive for years, and I’ll never let him live it down.”

Harry laughs, placing the platter on the island next to the large bowl of salad before heading to the cupboards to the upper left of the cooker. He gets two of everything, to be polite, and sets a bowl, small plate, and crockery in front of them both. “Help yourself, if you’d like,” he says as he serves himself. “It’s not much, but since I haven’t eaten in a while, I doubted I needed to gorge myself on heavy food. Don’t feel like being sick when I’ve finally managed to secure myself a holiday.”

Malfoy doesn’t look surprised at the offer, and actually spoons himself out a bit of salad before looking at the courgette pizzas in curiosity. “What exactly are these?” he drawls, pointing at the platter with his fork.

“Miniature pizzas. Enough calories to satisfy, but without all the carbs in a standard crust. They’re actually quite good for you, in moderation, and Gin likes them, so they never last long.” Malfoy tilts his chin in consideration, then selects a smaller one from the side, putting it on his plate to try once it cools.

As they both tuck in, Harry’s manners somewhat falling to the wayside since he’s in his own home and absolutely starved, Harry starts talking in between bites, surprised at how open this is. It isn’t like they’re friends that usually share things like this, and it’s baffling to do so with Malfoy. Somewhere, his inner sixteen-year-old self is shrieking.

“I love Ginny enormously,” he says, honestly meaning it. “She’s one of my best friends, and she’s the mother of my children...there’s no way that I could ever not love that woman. The only way that could ever change is if she hurt the kids or, I dunno, tried resurrecting Voldemort or something, and _that’s_ never going to happen.” Pleased that Malfoy doesn’t flinch at Tom Riddle’s long-ago title, he goes on, “At the end of the day though, we aren’t _in love_ with each other. I don’t actually think we ever were. We got together at school, when everything was spiralling out of control, and then got married the second she finished her seventh year. We didn’t stop to think about what we really wanted after our lives weren’t in danger, and we didn’t spend a few years on a sabbatical to just live life a little. We just jumped straight into marriage with a focussed mentality that enabled us to fuse our lives together. She got her chance for a taste of glamour, since God knows I’m useless at schmoozing, and I got to marry into the Weasley family. Not to mention that we got the kids, something both of us wanted even before we got together, and most certainly don’t regret in the slightest.”

He pushes an olive around in his bowl, trying to spear it with his fork as he tries to figure out what he wants to say next. Malfoy’s silent beside him, picking at his salad and taking conservative sips of his newly-refilled wine, but Harry can tell that he’s intently listening in. “The thing is, we aren’t really compatible with each other. Don’t get me wrong, we’re incredibly close and tell each other everything, but now that we’ve both had time to really evaluate our lives after so long being married, we know that we want something different from a partner. We’re sharing a comfortable home, raising three kids, but we’re not husband and wife really. We just want different things out of a partner, things that would make us truly happy.”

Harry cuts the courgette pizzas on his plate into halves. “We had a long talk about it, and decided to stay married for the kids’ sakes, but it’s just a farce. We both date other people, and we’ve come to the solution that if we ever fall in love with someone else, we’ll divorce amicably and continue to stay close. The kids know and are supportive, so they’ve met everyone that Gin and I have brought home over the years. The kids are first and foremost our top priority, so it’s imperative that we have their blessing before ever getting serious with someone.” Harry shoots Malfoy a wry little grin and adds, “Blaise has made a fabulous impression, as I’m sure you would’ve guessed. Even Albus seems to like him, and he’s usually so hard to please. Lily positively worships him, I think. It’d make me feel a bit jealous if I wasn’t the person she hugged first when she comes home for the hols.”

Malfoy’s lips quirk, his grey eyes glittering with amusement. “Anyway,” Harry says, winding down from _that_ personal monologue, “it’s been interesting to say the least, and I have to say that we’re probably going to end up following through with divorce soon. Gin isn’t in love with him yet, and she would’ve told me if she was, but I think it’s a done deal by this point. If they can manage a year, I’ll be convinced regardless of their declarations. Right now, the whole set-up is fairly easy to work around – they stay at Blaise’s townhouse while the kids are at school, and then we all co-habitate during the hols. I stay in the London flat when the kids are gone myself...I hate being in this massive fucking house alone, though this kitchen almost makes it worth it.”

Harry takes a slice of pizza into his mouth, chews, and then smiles at Malfoy. “So that’s the extent of it. I know it’s highly illegal in Wizarding marriage laws, but our current arrangement makes both of us happy, so everyone can just naff off. If you need a pet project once the Winkham trials are over, you should totally look into that. I’m sure Hermione would be happy to help out in any way she could, and Merryweather will be game, that bleeding liberal.”

Malfoy lets out a soft exhale, almost akin to a laugh, and then says, “It’s a possibility that’s been pushed around for a while now. It is a damned miracle Hermione and I managed to change the law permitting divorce in the first place, considering the Wizengamot.” Harry nods seriously, remembering the resulting riots that had occurred during his tenure as an active duty Auror. It had been a shit show trying to manage the protests, considering they had happened simultaneously with Muggle Britain’s military involvement with a new campaign in the Middle East in 2015, which had caused Muggle protests in its own right.

They sit in comfortable silence for a while, only the sound of crockery against porcelain breaking the air around them, both of them steadily draining the rest of the wine and their elbows knocking together as they eat with opposite hands, before Malfoy drawls, “So Ginevra brings Blaise around to cosy up to your kids, and you bring home women for the same thing? I’m staggered that you haven’t been exposed in the press, or that your children haven’t let slip yet.”

Harry snorts. “The kids know how serious this is, and how bad the fallout could be if it hits the papers. We have to be more careful than most, since Gin can’t keep out of the society column for longer than a week and my name comes with a mountain of veritable bullshit. And for your information, Gin has only brought home a handful of potentials. Blaise is the closest she’s gotten.”

Malfoy seems to war with himself, eyes flickering between Harry’s own as if measuring him up, before he questions, “And you?”

Harry’s surprised, and figures it shows on his face. He _really_ can’t believe they’re having this conversation with each other. “My God, Draco Malfoy, you are a nosy one, aren’t you?” When the tips of Malfoy’s ears go the palest shade of pink, his eyes darting down to his likely-cold, untouched courgette pizza, Harry teases, “Interested in my romantic prospects, are you? Something you need to tell me?”

Thankfully, the playful quip seems to bring back some equilibrium to the situation and Malfoy responds in a bored tone, “Figured I should get all the relevant gossip for future blackmail material. Think about all the favours I’ll be able to weasel out of you in exchange for keeping mum.”

Harry laughs freely, dropping his fork so he can cover his mouth. For all he knows, there’s oregano in his teeth or something, and at that thought, he sobers himself up and runs his tongue across his teeth (like that will help, the pesky herbs). “Oh, I’d forgotten what fun it is to poke you with a stick.” Malfoy shoots him a half-hearted glare while taking a large swallow of his wine, giving Harry a good view of how Malfoy’s throat looks doing it. Harry feels the beginnings of his own blush threatening to bloom on his face, and he forces himself to look away. Perhaps he needs to slow down on the wine himself.

To cover up the weird warmth in his stomach, he rambles, “Not as close as Gin and Blaise, but I was hoping the two I’ve brought home over the years were up for the job. Danielle was brill and I really fancied her, but there was just something about her that rubbed Albus the wrong way, so we ended up breaking it off. Same thing with Anthony; amazing and fit as all hell but Albus ju—” Harry stops mid-word when he registers that Malfoy is choking on his wine, the first _real_ expression since the entire bizarre conversation started. Now on guard himself, Harry says warily, “Right, so there’s another thing you didn’t know about me. I suppose that next we’ll be talking about kinks in the bedroom.”

Malfoy’s entire face goes pink instead of remaining localised in his ears, either with the choking or total mortification. Harry _really_ needs to stop fucking talking.

“I’m sorry,” he hears himself say without accord. “Normally I’m not this chatty, and you are literally one of the last people I would’ve expected to have this conversation with, if I’m honest.”

Malfoy swallows thickly and clears his throat, before he manages to say, “Likewise. I blame the wine.”

Harry huffs out a laugh and drops his napkin on his lap, finished eating for the time being. He’ll likely be starving again in an hour or so, but he doesn’t mind the idea of cooking again. “Probably,” Harry admits easily, giving Malfoy a half-hearted shrug. “Besides, I don’t really mind. It’s...” Harry trails off, wondering if he should even finish his thought, before deciding that it doesn’t matter. Hell, maybe this would really cement the possibility of a friendship, which would certainly thrill Albus and Scorpius.

And Hermione for that matter.

“It’s kind of nice,” Harry finishes, refusing to look at Malfoy. Despite his better judgement, he downs the last of his wine to loosen up his dry throat, automatically reaching for the bottle for a refill. He frowns when he realises it’s empty, and is remarkably steady when he stands up to make his way to the wine cooler rather than the cellar. He’s in the mood for a moscato, and it’ll have the added bonus of being at a lower alcohol content. Merlin only knows that he’s edging between tipsy and drunk already, and he really cannot bloody well believe that he’s getting drunk with Draco Malfoy in the house.

Funny what a couple decades can do to enemies. He’s just thankful that there isn’t a blood feud between their ancient families to deal with on top of their childhood hatred of each other. The bridge would’ve been impossible to build if that had been the case.

Malfoy is silent for a long moment and doesn’t speak again until Harry’s poured a generous helping of the moscato into his glass. To Harry’s surprise, Malfoy downs the rest of his and tilts his empty glass in Harry’s direction, so he smiles a bit and fills a similar amount in Malfoy’s glass as well.

Remarkably composed now, with his face absent of all colour except his pale alabaster, Malfoy says off-handedly, “Nice, is it? Again, it’s the wine talking, and I will use all of this against you at my earliest opportunity.”

“Oi!” Harry complains, letting out a bemused laugh. “You’re keeping up with me aren’t you?”

Malfoy shrugs, a perfectly executed manoeuvre that betrays his methodical planning of all physical expression. The only hint of Malfoy’s own slight intoxication is the slow roll of his head as he finally makes eye contact with Harry, and Harry vaguely wonders if he had been drinking before popping over to Harry’s Floo. It would certainly explain how Malfoy’s already a bit looser than Harry’s used to seeing, though perhaps he’s simply a lightweight. “Irrelevant,” Malfoy drones, his grey eyes relaxed to Harry’s relief. Maybe it _is_ the wine that’s making all of this easy, with minimal awkwardness. “Just don’t tell me about your activities in the bedroom with specific detail and it’ll be fine.”

“Deal,” Harry proclaims cheerfully, lifting his glass for a toast. Their glasses clink together with a pleasant sound, and Harry asks, “You aren’t going to blab though, are you?”

Malfoy rolls his eyes. “Of course not; Hermione would have my testicles cooked in a stew and fed to my mother.” Harry laughs so hard that he feels tears pop into his eyes, and Malfoy looks pleased, a satisfied smirk playing on his shapely lips. The look is good on him, enough to bring the hint of a flush to Harry’s own face, but he ultimately ignores it. Sure, Draco Malfoy is fit without a doubt, but it doesn’t mean that Harry wants to shag him.

He thinks.

“Though I most definitely need the blackmail material,” Malfoy continues, a sly grin replacing the pleased expression, and Harry takes another mouthful of his wine to hopefully avoid the question. Except it isn’t a question, not really: “I never took you for a poof, Potter.”

“God,” Harry bemoans once he’s swallowed, putting his face in his empty palm and shaking his head. “I’m not bent, you idiot,” Harry eventually shoots back, no real heat in his voice. “I’m fluid.”

“What in Merlin’s name does that mean?” Malfoy demands, clearly not understanding. It doesn’t surprise Harry in the slightest – Malfoy had been raised as a perfect pure-blood, so it makes sense that he has no idea what the spectrum of sexuality even is. Pure-bloods marry for heirs and bloodlines, and while they all (probably) enjoy sex just as much as the next human being, a lifetime of brainwashing made the vast majority of pure-bloods completely disregard the possibility of any relationship or marriage outside the strictly heterosexual. Blaise had been incredibly inquisitive when Harry’d brought a bloke named Darren to one of their double-dates, asking all sorts of questions because he couldn’t understand the mechanics or feelings behind it.

Harry frowns. Maybe he’s an overly sexual drunk, especially vocally. If he remembers correctly, Blaise had had to get him borderline plastered before Harry had divulged all the eccentricities of being...whatever Harry is. He vaguely remembers the same thing happening when he had had this conversation with Ginny, right before they’d gotten married, _and_ with Ron and Hermione right after the war. What an absolute fuck up. No one had probably told him about it because it was a great way to get Harry to patter on about shit, likely to everyone’s amusement.

He’s going to kill Ron, who’s usually responsible for every time he’s gotten pissed over the years.

Tentatively, Harry tells Malfoy, “Er, just wanna caveat that I’ve just realised that I’m a talkative drunk, and I tend to get really graphic, so please tell me to shut the fuck up if I make you uncomfortable.” He swallows another mouthful, wipes his mouth with a napkin, and marvels at the fact that he doesn’t feel nervous or apprehensive about having this conversation with Malfoy of all people. Maybe it _is_ the alcohol, but it’s probably because he has nothing to be ashamed of. Being bent, even somewhat, isn’t illegal any more, thank whatever gods are out there.

After Malfoy’s quick nod, obviously ready for Harry to elaborate, Harry says, “So Gin’s straight, yeah? So’s Blaise I reckon, unless he figured something out after our last convo. Er, Luna’s bisexual I think...likes men and women. I myself think gender’s stupid. There are eight billion people in the world, or something like that anyway, and limiting myself to a specific gender makes no bloody sense to me. I mean, I’m attracted to _people_ , not their dangly bits or lack thereof. Why can’t I fall in love with a man, huh? Why not a non-binary person? Why not someone who doesn’t identify as anything? Who fucking _cares_? They’re people, not meat bags, and trust me, _Draco_ , if someone has fingers and a mouth and knows what they’re doing with both, I’m going to get off anyway. I have kids already, so why does it matter?  I like people, and all their parts regardless of what they are, so as long as they’re good to my family and can deal with my special brand of crazy, then I’m down for anything that makes everyone happy.”

Malfoy’s looking at him with raised eyebrows, clearly taken aback. Harry isn’t sure if it’s the use of his first name, the subject matter, or Harry’s clear passion and exasperation infused in the speech itself, but he definitely looks staggered. Hell, maybe Malfoy’s never even thought about it like that before. Harry knows that Draco is familiar with the legalities of the LGBT+ movement that had swept through both the Wizarding and Muggle worlds in the early 2000s, though those are some of the few laws that Malfoy hadn’t assisted Hermione on (for once, but to be fair, he had been working on the mandatory supply of free Wolfsbane potions to all British lycanthropes, and therefore had been quite busy).

“You pure-bloods are unfathomable,” Harry proclaims, shooting Malfoy a crooked grin to show that he’s teasing.

“Because we emphasise the importance of marriage to women in order to continue our bloodlines?” Malfoy asks, a lilt to his voice that sounded like enthusiasm. Figures, since Malfoy’s a barrister and highly invested in politics. He’s probably enjoying the volley of their conversation.

“ _Yes_!” Harry exclaims, setting his nearly-empty wine glass on the worktop so he can talk with his hands. “I understand the need for heirs, if only to preserve bloodlines and continue having magical children, but there are options that are widely used in the Muggle world, like in-vitro and surrogates, that could be implemented in our world so couples of all types can have kids. I’ve a few friends who have already started using those methods.

“And even outside of that, pure-bloods and even half-bloods are so brainwashed to believe that relationships are only between a man and a woman that I don’t even want to contemplate how many people out there are confused in their own skin, depending on potions or spells just to get it up. It’s so important to experiment, y’know, so people can really get a grasp on what makes them tick. Otherwise, sex is so unemotional, and fuck, the best part about sex is _feeling_ it, the shudder down your spine and every nerve exploding with sensation, fingers tingling with the need to touch and mouth-watering to taste, blood boiling and heart pounding in your chest.”

Harry’s own blood is roaring through his own veins, arousal starting to swirl in his body just talking about it. God, but it’s been so _long_ since he’s felt such sensation, and he struggles to get control over his breathing and own libido. The last thing he needs is a stiffy while talking to Draco Malfoy about sex. Malfoy would never let him live it down.

But for fuck’s sake. It’s been months since he’d had sex and he’s already gagging for it. He doesn’t want to even imagine how someone like Malfoy is feeling, considering he probably hasn’t had companionship in over a year. Harry genuinely doesn’t think that he’d survive.

Calmer, Harry concludes, “Look, maybe those people find something resembling that with their spouses, and never even need to experiment, but it’s such a shame that they’ll never know, because their minds have been so warped with a single mentality. It’s a bloody shame that everyone can’t feel that high, because the only thing that could even possibly resemble it on an emotional level is having a child.”

He exhales noisily, barely noticing Malfoy’s blank expression (probably generating questions in that blond head of his), and debates on pouring a cup of tea. It’s probably over-brewed, but more wine is certainly a bad idea. He’s already past the edge into drunk, and his hangover will be blistering in the morning, since Harry’s pretty much downed a bottle and a half of wine with barely any food for days, an over-abundance of caffeine, and practically no water to speak of. Not to mention that he already feels overheated and stretched thin, and doesn’t want to make matters worse. Ginny will take one look at him when she gets home and tease him for _weeks_.

Against his better judgement (again), he takes a swallow of his wine instead.

“I’ve heard Hermione go on rants about this issue before, when she was working on the legislation,” he hears Malfoy say, and Harry’s attention darts back to Malfoy instantly. Draco looks contemplative, and it suddenly makes Harry want to snicker, though he holds it back by a hair. Maybe Malfoy will go out and mingle, something Hermione has apparently been trying to talk him into for the past six months or so, and Harry tries to imagine what that is even _like_ , Malfoy _flirting_. Probably downright hilarious.

Malfoy continues, “However, she wasn’t quite as passionate as you are about the subject, though I’m sure that’s to be expected considering your personal stake in the argument. I myself haven’t really thought about it before, nor did I think that it was possible to have children outside of a traditional marriage. Tell me, what is in-vitro and surrogates?”

Harry replies, “Well, it’s essentially where a Muggle healer takes sperm and implants it into a woman’s egg to fertilise a baby, all in some kind of machine I think. It can be carried in the mother who wants it, like a lesbian for instance, with donated sperm from a stranger or a close friend; on the other hand, it could be carried in a chosen woman who’s getting paid to carry a baby, called a surrogate, where the sperm itself is from the father who wants to continue his bloodline. Also, I’ve heard of straight couples who didn’t want to physically have babies themselves allowing a surrogate to get injected or whatever with the couple’s full-blood child, saving the woman from carrying. Anyway, it’s been popular in the Muggle world for decades now, and it’s just starting to get exposure in our communities. The magical couples who’ve done it ended up having magical children, even pure-bloods, so it’s a method that’s starting to gain traction amongst the medical community.”

Malfoy’s eyes are wide with an emotion that Harry can’t place. “That’s brilliant, actually,” he breathes, obviously awed at the concept. “Pure-bloods are prone to conditions that make even heterosexual couples infertile or subject to complications.” Harry’s heart falls suddenly, and he knows exactly where this is going. “To think that if we had paid more attention to Muggle medical practises, we could’ve...”

Malfoy trails off, an incomprehensible sadness making his eyes heavy, and Harry can’t help but reach out gingerly and place a hand on Malfoy’s forearm. Draco doesn’t even startle, just glances down at the contact before looking at Harry with a deep grief that takes Harry’s breath away. Softly, Harry says, “I’m sorry, Malfoy. Perhaps I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“No...no, it’s a good thing to know,” Malfoy answers, his voice slightly shaky but otherwise calm. “It’s comforting to hear that other people won’t go through what my family did, that there are options for pure-bloods to pursue.” He pauses, blinks, and then adds quietly, “Thank you for telling me. I’ll be sharing this to others prone to such issues. I doubt that Daphne even knows, and she’s being pressured to conceive by the circles. It will probably save her life.”

Harry bites his lip, afraid that he might suddenly start crying (damn the wine for exaggerating his emotional responses), and simply nods. He is glad that this information can assist with saving the lives of pure-bloods, who desperately want or are being pressured into having children but are terrified of losing their lives. He’s quite familiar with the issues in strict pure-blood circles, particularly the Greengrass and Parkinson lines, considering that inbreeding tends to genetically weaken bloodlines. If something like Muggle in-vitro can help them, then he is all for it (even if he does think that the pure-bloods need to branch out of their bloodlines, if only to strengthen their future children).

He removes his hand slowly and grasps his wine glass, standing up with only a slight wobble. “After how that conversation turned out, I feel like a break. Care to join me?”

Malfoy, his eyes still far away in his thoughts, visibly shakes himself as he registers the question. “What do you mean? Where are you going?”

Harry half-forces a smile, refills his glass nearly to the brim, and answers, “I dunno about you, but I need a fag. Top off and follow me.”

Malfoy blinks at him slowly, but does as Harry asks rather placidly, to Harry’s delight.

 

—

 

Harry lights another cigarette and breathes out a slow stream of grey smoke.

Harry had lit the pit with a wave of his wand to ward off the chill of the December evening, leaving the entire patio area bathed with an orange glow, and he had added a quick warming charm to the both of them just to cover all corners – the last thing either one of them needs is a Pepper-up-resistant cold, since the children will be back in a few days. They’re sat on one of the benches surrounding the pit, rather close together considering the lack of space, and Harry feels incredibly comfortable despite the chill he still feels. Winter’s probably his favourite season now, as it’s cold and desolate and signifies that the children will soon be back in his arms (as much as teenagers can be, anyway). His favourite had been autumn for the longest time, simply because the falling of the leaves meant that he could escape the Dursleys and return to the only true home he had ever known: Hogwarts. However, it had slowly moved to winter after the war, and hasn’t changed since.

Malfoy had popped into the house once to grab a new bottle of wine at some point, since they had polished off the moscato in short order, and Harry’s feeling remarkably toasted and perfectly tranquil. On his left, Malfoy’s a boneless shape, to Harry’s amusement, taking up the majority of the bench in an undignified slump despite his lanky form. He’s tempted to summon a camera to take a memorable photo – Malfoy’s arms along the back of the bench, legs spread in a vee, neck against the back and facing the dark sky with closed eyes and a slightly-open mouth. His nearly-empty wine glass is dangling off the side, held loosely in his fingers, and Harry thinks it’s very strange that the other arm is all but draped along Harry’s neck.

 

 _Fuck it_ , Harry thinks, and slumps himself, resting the back of his head on Malfoy’s forearm and pressing his thigh against Malfoy’s to get more comfortable. He watches the stars twinkle and spin above him, but he doesn’t dare close his eyes in fear of getting nauseous, instead heavily lifting his arm to take a drag off his cigarette. “ _That’s a deplorable habit, darling_ ,” Ginny says without fail, and she isn’t wrong; he justifies it by never getting caught by the press, never doing it around the kids, and doing it only socially, usually when drinking.

Or after sex, obviously. That is one common whisper that happens to be worth it.

“What’sit like?” he hears Malfoy mumble, and Harry’s head lolls in Malfoy’s direction, his left temple resting in the inner part of Malfoy’s elbow. They are very close to each other now, but Harry doesn’t mind. It’s nice just resting here with another person, someone who isn’t his direct family or close friend. He vaguely wonders if he’ll regret it in the morning, without the booze making everything blurred and lovely.

“What’re you on about?” asks Harry in a slur.

“That Muggle drug you’re inhaling. What’sit like?”

Harry laughs and prods at Malfoy’s side with the end of the wine bottle he’s holding with his left hand. “What, d’you wanna try? It’s a deplorable habit, Gin says.”

Malfoy is quiet for a long moment, his breathing even, and Harry figures he’s fallen asleep (bloody lightweight) before Malfoy says, “Alright then.” He tries to sit up, swaying before Harry budges up closer against him, their bodies pressed together if only to keep the poor man from falling over. Malfoy’s right arm wraps around Harry’s neck as his eyes open, staring dazedly at Harry so close-close-close, and Harry can’t help but feel a strong curl of arousal at the sight of such a gorgeous man within kissing distance.

Malfoy doesn’t have any hands to grab the fag, nor is he making any move to free one up either, so Harry lifts the cigarette to Malfoy’s lips with slightly shaky fingers, blood curling in his veins and his breathing slightly elevated. “Exhale before wrapping around it,” Harry whispers, not daring to speak any louder lest his voice crack, “and then inhale with your lungs, holding it there for a few seconds if you can. You’ll probably cough like I did the first time, but it gets easier once you get used to it.”

He brings the fag to Malfoy’s lips, feeling Malfoy’s chilled skin against his fingertips, his exhale against his skin before his lips move around the fag-end, and God Harry could almost imagine what it would look like now to see those lips wrapped around—

Malfoy inhales, his chest moving against Harry’s arm, and then exhales slowly, a pale, barely-there cloud of smoke in the air between them. Harry’s fucking mesmerised by the sight, Draco Malfoy in languid disarray with his lips still pressed against Harry’s fingers, and Harry gets hard so goddamn fast he practically sees stars.

“Oh,” Malfoy says simply, blinking up at him. “I didn’t cough. Give me another.”

“Wait your turn, git,” Harry manages, pulling away from Malfoy’s smooth skin and taking a shaky drag off the end. _Fuck but his lips were just wrapped around this_ , he can’t help but think, and after he exhales, he manoeuvres his arm around so he can take a large swallow from the distressingly-close-to-empty bottle of white Malfoy had snagged.

“Hmm, that’s not very polite of you,” Malfoy hums, the drawl of his tone belied by the heavy slur of his intoxication. Yeah, Harry needs to remove himself from the situation, despite how lovely it is, because Harry is much too sloshed to make any logical decisions, and he doesn’t need to end up jumping the clearly sozzled Malfoy without clear consent. Still though...

“I’m not very polite,” Harry breathes, moving his right hand again to let Malfoy pull a drag from the ciggie. Harry repeats unsteadily, “I’m _really_ not very polite. Why aren’t we friends again?”

“Because you bonded with a Weasley over sweets,” Malfoy says, his glazed eyes glittering with amusement and lips curled against Harry’s fingers, smoke billowing out of his mouth with every word he speaks. “Mmm, that’s nice. Goes well with the wine.”

The former part of Malfoy’s words gives Harry a fabulous idea that _doesn’t_ involve jumping the poor man, and he pulls away, putting the cigarette in between his lips so it can dangle there. He needs his right hand after all. “Okay then, let’s start over,” Harry mumbles around his cigarette, starting to snicker against his will as he tries to recall the words spoken so long ago. “Wait, how did it go? You’ll figure...wait, you’ll find out that some people...no, families...yeah, families, _Wizarding_ families are much better than others, Malfoy,” he says in between laughter, and he’s delighted when Malfoy starts laughing with him, a pleasant sound that’s soothing to his swirling emotions. He can do _this_ right now, this offer of friendship, and it’s okay. Thinking about getting on his knees and sucking down Malfoy’s prick is another thing entirely, and besides, he likes the idea of friendship better, in a way.

“Oh gods,” Malfoy wheezes, cheeks tinged pink with mirth and chill and alcohol as he laughs.

“Shut the fuck up Malfoy, I’m trying to do a thing here,” Harry complains. Then he continues gravely, though the effect is slightly mucked up by the slurring and the fag, “Right. Wizarding families, some better than others, yada-yada-yada, I already did this part, so moving on...I can help you there!”

Harry pushes out his hand directly under Malfoy’s pointy chin, the jostle almost making his cigarette fall from his lips, and Malfoy succeeds in pulling himself up slightly, yanking said fag from his lips when his arm unravels itself from Harry’s neck and taking a deep drag from it. A moment later, he exhales (this time with a bit of a cough) and then says airily, “Alright then.”

Their hands connect, and they both shake hands very gravely, their fingers cold and wrapping snug around the other’s hand. Then they both burst out into uncontrollable laughter, because what in the actual _fuck_ , and the sound seems to rouse the occupants of the house, who apparently are home.

“What are you _doing_ out there, Harry?” he hears Ginny call, and Harry buries his face into Draco’s shoulder to stifle some of the noise. He can hear a door opening fully and footsteps moving quickly in their direction, and suddenly there’s a great explosion of laughter from two distinctly familiar voices.

“Oh Merlin!” Ginny cries, practically delirious as she laughs at them. “What in the hell happened to you two?”

“Bloody hell, Draco, you are completely obliterated,” Blaise says between snickers, and then suddenly he chokes. “Oh gods, what’re you even doing here? I’m just picking up something from Potter’s wi—”

“Fuck off, Blaise, he totally knows. We’re friends and shit now...shook on it and everything, so we can talk about adult things,” Harry says with a giggle, voice muffled from Malfoy’s warm and bony shoulder. “We should’ve done that _ages_ ago, really. Hermione’s going to cry when she finds out, or at least throw a party. Or force us to go to a big, happy, soppy fuckin’ dinner together.”

Harry doesn’t have to be looking at her (or sober) to know that Ginny is rolling her eyes. “Alright, you two, you both need to get some water and rest before you end up in St Mungos for poisoning.” Harry simply turns his head a bit out of Malfoy’s shoulder so he can lazily pluck the fag from Malfoy’s lips and suck the last of it. “That’s a deplorable habit, darling,” Ginny says, predictably, and Malfoy snorts so hard that he nearly falls off the bench, only Harry’s quick arm around his waist keeping him upright.

“Told you,” Harry says seriously.

Malfoy ignores him and mumbles, “I can’t move. Blaise, I can’t feel my feet. Someone carry me or I swear I’ll sleep out here.”

“Malfoys sleep in beds,” Blaise drones, though he’s grinning, and he and Ginny start untangling the two of them with a patience that Harry finds quite admirable. If he’d found Ginny and Blaise out in the freezing cold garden, drunk of their arses and giggling to each other, Harry would’ve laughed uproariously, taken a few thousand pictures for blackmail, and then levitated them in their tangle to a bedroom with no fanfare. Instead, Blaise does actually have to pick Malfoy up, carrying the poor prat like he’s a bride, and Harry is so dependent on Ginny as a cane that he’s surprised she doesn’t just Apparate him (despite the unavoidable vomiting that follows Apparition and copious drinking).

They meander their way to the house, Blaise mumbling something to Ginny before they go in separate directions. Dazedly, Harry wonders if Blaise is going to take Malfoy home, and if so, will the two of them even acknowledge that any of the night had happened? Harry’s pretty comfortable with it all (though he isn’t entirely sure what the sober light of day will bring), but Malfoy’s a lot more impassive and cold than Harry and might actually regret the ridiculousness of the night.

Harry hopes not. Despite their shaky past, he really hopes they can somehow manage friendship.

Ginny continues to drag Harry to his room on the second storey, the stairs particularly problematic, as she asks, “I almost don’t want to know but what in the hell? I mean, you and Draco, drunk and out in the cold like that? Tell me you didn’t, I dunno, declare your undying love or something.”

Harry snorts so hard that his wobbly balance fails and they both topple over, crashing into a decorative table. Fortunately, Harry still has enough facilities left to take the entirety of the crash, and he feels the wind leave his body in a forceful rush when her full weight lands on his stomach. “Oh fuck,” Harry chokes, trying to catch his breath, “are you okay?”

Ginny coughs, huffs a laugh, and then knocks him round the head. “You’re an idiot,” she says fondly, and scrambles off of him, finally pulling out her wand and straight up levitating him up the rest of the stairs.

As they make their way up the stairs and down the halls, Harry tries to stop the queasy rolling of his stomach while he explains in a practically non-coherent slur, “No, that’s bonkers. We just decided to be friends...hopefully he remembers it. He _is_ fit though, isn’t he? I mean, I don’t wanna shag him or anything, but he is definitely attractive. Not like that matters though – I’m just an...irritating Gryffindor or whatever, so he wouldn’t touch me regardless.”

Ginny scoffs. “School was a long time ago, and no one cares about Houses now that we’re adults.” She pauses, and then amends, “Except perhaps Ron, but he’s a right moron about these things, as you very well know.” They reach Harry’s room, and she wastes no time tossing him on his bed without fanfare and going to the bathroom for a glass of water. She calls out over the run of the tap, “So stop using all that rubbish as an excuse. Draco _is_ positively fit, and the two of you have been obsessed with each other since 1991 – obviously it’s unresolved sexual tension, Draco’s marriage and questionable upbringing aside. Just jump him and get it out of your system, or Merlin forbid, marry the poor arsehole and make our son proud.”

Harry’s torn between uproarious laughter or incoherent denial; therefore, the sound that comes out of Harry’s throat can only be described as the death of a mad, dying animal. He flails his arms about, a bit sloppily due to being plastered beyond belief, and he yells out, “Oh my _God_ , Gin, it’s not like that!”

Ginny’s the one that snorts this time as she forces him to drink a gulp of water. Some of it sloshes down Harry’s chin, and he wipes it absently with a heavy hand as she points her wand at him. The feeling of the water in his stomach slowly expanding inside him is a bizarre one, and he squeezes his eyes shut so he doesn’t sick up, fingers curling into fists. He understands why she’s doing it, because he needs some hydration or he’ll be double-dosing on hangover potions in the morning (dangerous, and practically ineffective), so he suffers through it, giving her a half-hearted glare when his stomach feels full to bursting.

“I fucking hate you,” Harry bites out, though there isn’t any real anger in it, and she rolls her eyes, flipping two fingers at him before pushing him down into the pillows with a cool palm to his forehead.

“Get some sleep, you daft git, and I’ll have the elves make you a full English tomorrow with a helping of hangover potion for afters,” she says with a smile, Vanishing his clothes down to his pants and tucking him into his cosy blankets, and despite the fact that she’s just gorged him on water and called him daft, he feels his chest and stomach expand from the love he feels for her because _God_ he does.

With a flick of her wand, the lights go out and she kisses him on the forehead. “G’night, darling,” she murmurs into his hair, and then leaves.

Surprisingly, despite the queasy tilting of the room, it only takes him a few minutes to nod off, dreams vague and quickly forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art in this part by [theacebard](http://theacebard.tumblr.com/).


	3. An Evening Out

#### Three

_Saturday, 14 March 2021_

 

Blaise, as he is keyed into the wards, comes through Harry’s Floo at half-six without warning.

Harry’s not really bothered by the intrusion. He’s been dealing with the idiot tumbling in at all hours of the day, sometimes when he isn’t even home, and it’s all fairly commonplace by this point. Considering Blaise is a drama queen at the best of times, Harry doesn’t even stop reading the latest reports on budgeting changes that the Wizengamot Administration Services is trying to weasel in. He can’t figure out why they would request something as ridiculous as an entire construction overhaul of their offices when they’ve just had an overhaul in the past half-century, and the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office hasn’t had one in two hundred years. It’s mad, honestly, and Harry shakes his head with vague exasperation.

“Potter!” he hears Blaise shout from the sitting room, and Harry rolls his eyes. If Blaise keeps thumping into his flat at the rate he has been, and for such ridiculous things too, Harry’s going to either kill him or reset the wards entirely. Sometimes, a man just needs to have some bloody fucking privacy.

“What do you want?” Harry calls out, absently grabbing the _Prophet_ and tearing off the front page with sadistic glee. It’s a rather sickening article on Dennis Thornberry, who is in fact the biggest thorn in Harry’s side since Voldemort – and for someone who deals with Rita Skeeter and her protégé as well as other nonsensical bureaucrats with ulterior motives on a day-to-day basis, that’s saying a lot. The article, written by the abominable Skeeter, waxes poetry on Thornberry’s push to be the next Minister of Magic, citing idealism and socialism within the Granger-Weasley era of the Ministry that is destroying the magical way of life. Harry thinks it’s total bollocks, obviously, but it still doesn’t change the fact that Thornberry has a large backing in the ethno-cultural parties in the UK, particularly the Traditionalist Party of Magical Britain. The TPMB – colloquially known as conservatives but laughingly called Clingons by their opposition – has been achieving surprising victories in London, but it’s nothing _too_ fanatical, such as edging into Voldemort-era ideals.

Thank God.

After gaining an unexpected jump in their Wizengamot seats during Hermione’s election, which was a genuine shock considering how liberal Hermione is, Thornberry’s been calling for a General Election, and it’s gaining traction with the public. The British Populist Party, or the liberals, have the majority of twelve at the moment, but a few of the more centrist BPP members have switched sides in the past few months (mostly because Hermione’s affiliated with the far-left egalitarian branch of the BPP, known sardonically as the Unicorns but officially known as the Progressive Populist Movement).

Harry tends to vote sporadically between liberals and conservatives, depending on the person and their platform, but Thornberry annoys the hell out of him. Not only is he a fucking scumbag and an all-around horrible human being, but he also tends to meddle in things that he doesn’t understand. Particularly in the DMLE. Thornberry doesn’t like Harry whatsoever, probably because of a healthy mixture of being Hermione’s best friend and the whole defeater-of-Voldemort thing, so he regularly interferes with Harry’s duties as the Head of the DMLE. They’ve almost come to blows multiple times over the past twenty years, since Harry was a green little Auror, and the animosity continues to grow as the days go by. It’s gotten to the point where Harry’s voting purely liberal just to make a point (to himself only, since he’s not allowed to publicly endorse any elections due to his position, but still, his close friends and family all think it’s a riot and that’s all that counts, really).

With a diabolical grin, Harry stares at the picture of Thornberry, who’s scowling at him quite venomously as he slowly crumples the paper into a ball.

He’s still grinning at the wrinkled and distorted face of Thornberry when Blaise walks into Harry’s study, and Harry cackles madly as he throws the paper wad into his fireplace. He watches it burn for a few seconds, still laughing, and then glances down at page three, where no less than four other Thornberry photographs are yelling at him silently, shaking their fists menacingly. Harry just grins at them, flipping two fingers at the pictures and probably looking foolish.

He really might be mad, but Harry’s okay with that. He’s allowed to be mad considering his life, and since he’s not hurting anyone, he figures that everyone can sod off if they’ve a problem.

“That’s vaguely terrifying,” Blaise drawls blankly, one carefully groomed eyebrow delicately arched on his handsome face. He looks positively gorgeous in his posh Muggle clothes, and while Harry appreciates his wife’s taste in men, he is a bit distracted because he knows what Muggle clothes on Blaise Zabini means.

Harry sighs. He’d been looking forward to a night in, too.

To his left, Draco is smirking in Harry’s direction, and Harry knows he’s about to have a horrible night because Draco’s _also_ in Muggle clothes, looking entirely at ease. “To be fair, Thornberry _is_ an utter pillock,” Draco says to Blaise. “The entire DMLE has been looking for dirt on him to enforce a sack for years, but we can’t find anything concrete.”

“As your Department Head, I most certainly didn’t hear that,” Harry declares airily, standing up with one last nasty look at his mangled _Prophet_. The four Thornberrys scowl back, and Harry folds the paper in half to keep from sicking up. Circe, but Harry really does abhor that bastard. Forcing his attention to Blaise, he asks, “D’you want me to fire-call Charlie and Padma?”

“Definitely,” Blaise tells him, waving one hand absently, “but tell them we’re going to the 1969, so they need to dress appropriately.”

The 1969 is a relatively new place, having opened in 2019, but it’s been a resounding success even though alcohol prices there are _outrageous_. Best part about the 1969 is that Harry doesn’t feel too old going there, even though he’s forty and starting to look it. Sure, witches and wizards live longer and age at a slower rate than Muggles, but still. Forty. Practically ancient to Harry, since he grew up thinking everyone died at, like, sixty or something, and had carried that belief into his adulthood until Hermione had lectured him on magical lifespans.

In addition to being mad, Harry’s fairly dim-witted about certain things too.

Harry gapes for a long moment, blinking rapidly between the two men in his doorway, and then asks Draco curiously, “Er, he did tell you what we’re apparently doing, right? Or is he throwing you into the pit of debauchery and seeing if you sink or swim?”

Draco rolls his eyes, that smirk still in place as he replies with amusement, “A loud, overly expensive pub filled with homosexuals, yes, though he says we might migrate later in the festivities.”

Harry, who still can’t believe people actually _talk_ like Draco Malfoy in real life, sincerely doubts it. If anything, the only person who might even remotely want to do so will be Draco himself – everyone else in their little group tends to hop between the gay clubs and pubs in Greater London fairly frequently, as Blaise and Ginny are the only straight ones and they’re fucking each other anyway.

Harry absently wonders how Draco will do. Somehow, Harry doubts that the bastard will buy a single drink tonight, since he’ll probably ooze _Fresh Blood_ and he’s fit as hell to boot; not to mention that Draco’s already pretty metro so he’ll get a lot of attention for his fashion too. Still though, Draco’s still pretty quiet and uptight, and it’s his first time in an establishment that primarily caters to the LGBT+ community (and definitely his first primarily Muggle establishment, as Draco himself had said a few weeks ago), so Harry’s a bit worried. Not about Draco attacking someone, but instead Draco being so unbelievably uncomfortable that the entire night is shoddy. Harry’s never been drinking with Draco in public before, and certainly not in a Muggle gay club, so he’s a little understandably nervous.

“It’s actually more of a club, and by ‘more of a club’ I mean that it _is_ a club, and an unapologetically queer one at that,” Harry tells him honestly, and then glares at Blaise. “And I’m getting too old for this shit. We’re _all_ getting too old for this shit. All I want to do is drink wine and do paint-by-numbers with a few of my closest mates, which means that it’s all downhill from here. Pretty soon I’ll have arthritis and creaky joints and won’t sleep a full night without pissing myself.”

Blaise rolls his eyes. “Stop being melodramatic; you sound like Draco. You won’t start pissing yourself until you’re at least one hundred fifty.”

“Fuck you and your luscious self, you unapologetically gorgeous bastard,” Harry shoots back good-naturedly, balling up a spare sheet of paper and throwing it at Blaise’s head. To Harry’s amusement, Draco absently catches it lightning-quick before it even hits Blaise and then tosses it into the fire, just like the _Prophet_ front page. Harry scowls, but there’s no real venom in it. Once a Seeker, always a Seeker, and Draco was always rather good at being one despite bribing his way onto the Slytherin team back in school.

“Always knew you wanted me for yourself, Harry,” Blaise says with a leer, and Harry pushes him outside the study.

“Get over yourself,” Harry complains as he pulls Draco out by the forearm, and then he has to concentrate so he can put up the security wards to make sure no one can come into the study when he’s not present. His hand sweeps over the now-closed doorway, a pale blue glow appearing around the door briefly (the only place the wards can be dropped), and he can feel Draco at his shoulder from the faint whisper of warm breath on his skin.

Once Harry’s hands drop, wards in place, he turns towards Draco and begins leading Draco to the sitting room. The rest of his flat is mostly indistinguishable from a Muggle flat, just in the event that he has anyone non-magical over; the majority of his more obviously magical assets are sequestered in his office or in the main house at Godric’s Hollow. “So I don’t know if Blaise has told you the rules, but it’s pretty simple,” Harry tells Draco very seriously, needing him to really understand. “Be mindful of your drinks, don’t wonder off by yourself, _especially_ to the loo, and if you feel uncomfortable just get any one of us and we’ll help you out. I don’t know how many times I’ve had to stop pulling because Padma or Charlie needed a fake boyfriend to get rid of a creep. None of us will mind. And trust me, your first time in any Muggle bar is _not_ the time to be independent and all that rubbish, so grab one of us if you need to, okay?”

Draco’s eyes are a bit wide, but he nods as they walk into the sitting room. Blaise, who’s sat on the sofa with three fingers of what looks like scotch, adds, “And for fuck’s sake, if you decide you’re suddenly a poof and see a bloke you want to shag, let us know first before you disappear so we don’t send out the bloody King’s armada looking for you. But at the same time, don’t be like this moron here, who always has to be torn off a bloke before he gets arrested for indecent exposure.”

Harry bursts out laughing, both from Blaise’s words (God but he adores the sod) as well as the subsequent pink splotches on Draco’s ears and cheekbones.

It might be a fun night after all.

 

—

 

Best part about going out with Blaise is that he’s both unapologetic and impatient.

Blaise tips the bouncer at the door a hundred quid for each of them (Harry, Ginny, Blaise, Draco, Padma, and Charlie), barely giving the poor man a moment to choke at the twelve fifty-pound notes suddenly in his hands, before they bypass the massive queue to a chorus of groans. Blaise immediately heads towards the VIP section on the top floor, the rest of them trailing after him, and calls out to a group of ridiculously fit Muggles seemingly celebrating something, “Oi, I’ll buy all your drinks for the rest of the night if you share. My friends and I are _not_ going to be surrounded by plebeians and you lot are fucking gorgeous, so what d’you say?”

Maybe it’s the offer of unlimited booze, or maybe it’s because Blaise is both a force that can’t be denied _and_ absurdly attractive, but the group of four blokes and two birds wave them in.

Blaise tips the bouncer guarding the VIP section another six hundred, and they’re allowed in once the six of them get their plastic, glittery turquoise armbands.

More chairs are acquired by the staff, Blaise orders a round of tequila shots (though Padma declines, as she always does), and so begins the usual shitstorm that comes with a night out: copious amounts of alcohol, somehow acquiring body glitter, the misplacement of clothes, and everyone becoming best friends.

Thank God for hangover potions.

The Muggles are good company, already a few sheets in the wind and all of them clearly single. They all exchange stories and discover that the Muggles – Alex, Robert, Josh, Xavier, Michelle, and Trixie – all go to uni in London, studying a mix of criminology and law which naturally amuses Draco half to death. Harry, who gives his usual drivel about being a DCI for the Yard, is naturally interested, and it doesn’t take long for him to make friends with Robert (“ _Just call me Robbie, everyone does_ ”), who wants to push for the Yard himself after uni.

Robert’s fit, no doubt, and certainly Harry’s type (and doesn’t seem too bothered that Harry’s got a significant other, and that’s both disturbing and glorious, because he’s more likely to pull that way but still, he mourns for the lack of morality in today’s youth). He’s got wavy strawberry blond hair that’s soft to the touch, light brown eyes framed in thick lashes, full pink lips that look delectable, and cheekbones that can probably cut glass, all set on a face that’s well put together. He’s as tall as Harry is, as Harry finds out when they go dance in the pit, and he’s thin and lanky against Harry’s more solid bulk. Like he always is with light-skinned people, Harry’s fascinated by the sight of his own hands on Robert’s skin, ivory against caramel, and Harry can’t help but trace the pink flush on Robert’s neck and what he can see of his chest with one finger every time Robert blushes.

Harry glances away from Robert’s playful eyes, both of them sitting fairly close at this point, to take in the table, wanting to make sure everything’s okay. Ginny and Blaise are dancing on the ground floor, both of them giving the singles (of sorts) some time to mingle, and he knows that those two can take care of themselves, so he’s not concerned with them. As for the others, Padma’s already gotten lucky, taking her girl of the night back to her Hammersmith flat for a bit of a tumble. Charlie’s laughing with a few guys and girls, some from the original group and some that he’s ‘acquired’ in between dancing and shots. Draco’s deep in conversation with Xavier, both of them having to press against each other to speak in ears just to hear, and Harry grins at the sight of Draco practically entangled with a Muggle.

Harry’s been pleasantly surprised at how involved Draco’s been the past few hours. He hasn’t danced, either in the VIP lounge or down in the pit, but he’s matched drink for drink, and was even alright when Xavier began teasingly blowing blue glitter at his skin. He’s been perfectly pleasant, even downright charming, to the Muggles around him, genuinely curious as to their schooling and lives, and if Harry didn’t know better, he’d say that Draco has been _flirting_ with Xavier.

Draco notices Harry’s eyes on him and flips two fingers in his direction, but to Harry’s surprise, Draco winks mischievously as well while he listens to Xavier’s words in his ear.

“They seem like they’re getting on,” Robert says in Harry’s own ear, but Harry barely hears, because his drunken brain is finally piecing together everything. Harry almost can’t believe it, but he’s positive that Draco fucking Malfoy is _experimenting_ , and with a _Muggle_ no less, and Harry can’t help but laugh brightly at the thought.

He wonders how that conversation went with Blaise, since Blaise had said at the beginning of the night that Draco had wanted to tag along to officially celebrate his Winkham win, or if Draco had kept mum. Harry figures it’s the former, since it was Blaise’s idea to come to the fucking craziest gay club in Vauxhall, and everyone knows that the only people who come to the 1969 are people who want to pull.

“Oh my God, they _are_!” Harry exclaims, and just because he’s tickled by the situation (and half-hard due to Robert practically being in his lap and looking like he does), Harry turns his head and kisses the poor man soundly.

Robert’s reaction is instantaneous, his mouth opening beneath Harry’s as he solidly straddles Harry’s lap, and Harry is distracted from his epiphany because holy hell Robert’s quite good at this. It’s a slow slide of mouths and tongues, fingers digging into muscle and hair, and Robert rolls his hips once, which makes Harry disconnect their lips so he can groan from the friction.

“Randy fuckers!” Harry hears Blaise yell, and Harry distractedly throws an empty beer cup at Blaise’s head as he and Ginny sit back down, both of them sweaty and covered in yellow glitter. Blaise laughs uproariously, Ginny rolling her eyes and opting to shut him up by attaching her lips to his glistening throat. There’s a few echoes of _hypocrite!_ from their table guests, but Harry’s already over it, one hand blindly groping the glass- and plastic-littered table for his fags.

Draco, who’s strangely flushed (Harry can’t help but hope that Draco got a good eyeful of them snogging, and isn’t _that_ a delicious thought), spots them faster and snatches the half-empty carton. Harry blinks at him, oh-so hard and unwilling to get up for the smoking patio, before Robert gives him a quick peck on the lips and says, “Don’t take too long. I think I’d like to continue this when you get back.”

Harry grins at him, nips playfully at Robert’s pulse in his neck, and then they mutually untangle themselves so Harry can stand a bit shakily. Before he moves out of the way, Robert brushes his palm against Harry’s jean-covered prick, squeezing it once before moving out of the way. Harry stares down at him in surprise, his brain buzzing with alcohol and arousal, because Robert’s long legs are spread enticingly and Harry can see the swell of Robert’s own hard cock in his tight trousers.

Harry really wants to get on his knees right now.

“C’mon,” he hears Draco say in his ear, and then he’s yanked towards the balcony, though he continues to keep heated eye contact with Robert until they’re out the door in the cold night.

The deafening, hypnotic music – trap, Harry thinks, but he’s not one hundred percent certain – fades into a dull beat, and the cold is like a swift kick to the libido. Harry feels himself flush, even though he’s not really embarrassed about what he did. But because he’s uncertain about his companion’s reaction, he turns to Draco, opening his mouth to speak. However, the words die off, because Draco’s lighting up a fag with easy grace (Harry’s been a horrible influence on him, in regards to smoking) and he looks just as flushed as Harry probably is.

Harry’s eyes flicker down to the line of Draco’s trousers, and his breathing goes choppy when he sees the outline of Draco’s prick, at _least_ half-hard and ruining the line. It blows Harry’s mind that Draco’s turned on by all this, either by Harry and Robert’s snogging or the atmosphere itself or Xavier or all of it together, and a part of him wants to ask for every excruciating thought that’s going through Draco’s brain.

Instead, he watches Draco tilt his face into the chilled air, exhaling slowly, before he accepts the fag that Draco hands him. Harry waits until Draco’s lit his own ciggie before they make their way to the empty plush chairs by the railing. There’s only two other people smoking, over by the building itself, but Harry and Draco pay them no mind. Harry plops down onto his chair, grimacing slightly because the friction against his flies is a bit distracting despite the cold, and then he says bluntly, “I should probably thank you for dragging me out of there. I was about five seconds from falling on my knees and blowing him in front of everyone, though I doubt Robert would’ve minded.”

Draco huffs, though the flush deepens on his cheeks. “Didn’t know you were into public fornication, Harry.” His voice is slightly slurred but still decipherable, and Harry vaguely wonders how drunk he is. Most likely quite so, considering that he’s been keeping up with Harry, and Circe only knows that Harry’s borderline plastered. Plus Draco’s a bit of a lightweight, to everyone’s amusement, though Draco has been getting quite a bit more practise considering that Harry and Draco regularly drink together (though usually in the privacy of one of their homes or occasionally while out to eat).

Harry shrugs, then languorously stretches, back arching and toes curling in his boots. His breath hitches again as his prick rubs against his trousers, and wow Harry really needs to get off. It’s been bloody months since he’s shagged someone...or been shagged. He’s not really picky either way. “Lotta shit you don’t know about me, Draco,” Harry responds, slumping back in the faux leather chair, and he takes a lazy drag from his ciggie. The light-headed feeling from the nicotine goes really well with the absurd amount of tequila and beer he’s had, and he immediately takes another drag once the smoke is out of his lungs.

Draco doesn’t say anything for a long moment, both of them comfortably quiet as they look at the perpetual red glow of the night sky. Harry hates that he can’t see the stars in London, but the city’s charm more than makes up for that small problem. After all, the countryside is only a quick Apparition away, and God, but Harry loves London more than everywhere but Hogwarts.

Then, half a cigarette later, Draco asks, “You going home with him?”

Harry shrugs again, totally boneless and in love with life, the world spinning pleasantly behind his rectangular-framed glasses. “Probably, but not for a while I reckon. I’m not gonna pull a Paddy and just bugger off before everyone else is done. Gin and Blaise’ll be fine, but Charlie hasn’t pulled yet, and I’m still curious as to whether you’ll take Xavier home or just lead the poor chap on all night.”

Harry glances over at Draco and is pleased to see that the flush has turned into an inferno, probably rushing down Draco’s chest by this point (though Harry can’t tell, since he’s in his button-up and coat and has a scarf on as well). Harry snickers at Draco’s clear embarrassment, his emotions brought out by the drink – because Draco’s an emotionless drone when he doesn’t have the Devil’s drink flowing through him.

Though that’s not quite true either. Harry and Draco have been meeting up pretty regularly since that spontaneous night before the Yule hols, for dinner and company, and it’s getting easier to figure him out the longer he spends time with Draco. Everyone has tells, to be sure, and Draco’s are just a bit more smooth and seamless than most people’s. Not to mention that Draco lowers his steel guard around people he’s comfortable with, and recently that’s included Harry.

Harry’s quite honoured by that, actually.

“Besides,” Harry continues, taking another drag and letting the smoke curl around his words, “I have to make sure he’s not, I dunno, looking for something more than a shag first. As soon as I figure that out, I’ll make up my mind about him.”

Draco clears his throat, fag tucked in between his lips, and primly brushes his hands down the fabric covering his thin but shapely thighs as if trying to get rid of the blue glitter that clings to them. Harry’s transfixed by the sight of those long fingers on said thighs, and he absently wonders if Ginny wasn’t right all those months ago: perhaps he _should_ just try to charm his way into Draco’s trousers (which might be easier now, since Harry’s pretty confident that he’s at least bisexual, considering the erection). They’d probably be spectacular together, and besides, Draco’s definitely Harry’s type. He’d figured that out pretty quickly after the war, and it sort of made sense as to why Harry had always obsessed over him. Well, other than the whole Death Eater thing, but that’s water under the bridge in Harry’s eyes.

“What does that mean?” Draco mumbles curiously around his cigarette. “Is there some sort of etiquette involved with these types of Muggle places?”

Harry snorts. “No, not really, but it’s kind of important I guess.” He ponders a bit, wondering how to really articulate his thought processes. It’s easier with Draco than, say, Hermione, because Draco’s conservative and he’s a lot more cautious, but it’s still difficult to really speak about. He’s only told Ron this before, no one else, and even Ron had been a bit iffy about it. After all, he’d married Hermione, a Muggle-born and a bloody socialist, bless her heart.

“I dunno, I guess it’s the whole—” Harry glances around the balcony, but there’s no one around them as even the two blokes from before had wandered back into the club. He discreetly pulls his wand from his sleeve just enough to work, does a magical sweep for any Muggle listening devices, and finding nothing but a video-only CCTV, he replaces his wand in its holster and continues, “—magic thing. Don’t you _ever_ fucking tell Hermione I said this, but I could never date or marry a Muggle. It’s impossible for me to even think about.”

Draco’s eyebrows are practically in his hairline, the surprise in his hazy grey eyes obvious, but Harry ignores him and says, “I mean, c’mon. I’m a wizard. I live in a Wizarding house. I have a Wizarding job. My entire network of friends is magical. Hell, my three kids are magical. Can you imagine bringing a Muggle into my life? They’d never be able to defend themselves if, I dunno, one of the books in the library attacks them or one of my many enemies targets them. They’d never be able to adjust the wards if they wanted to have a friend over, and heaven forbid, can you imagine trying to rein in three magical children as a Muggle? It’d be a nightmare, especially with James’s tricks and pranks. They’d never be able to play Quidditch with me and my family, and they’d never be able to really, _truly_ fit into my life. I know that sounds horrible, and totally barbaric, and Hermione would have a bloody coronary if she heard me say that, but it’s just how I see things. It’s only going to breed resentment, because a Muggle will never be able to really integrate themselves into my family’s life. Does that make sense?”

“Absolutely,” Draco says vehemently, crushing his finished fag into the tray and immediately lighting up another. Through a mouthful of smoke, he adds, “I’d never do it myself either, but all power to the ones that try it. However, I personally agree with what you’ve said. There’s too much of a bridge to gap, especially with magical children already at Hogwarts. Especially your oldest – that brat’s an absolute menace to proper society.”

Harry laughs.

He follows Draco’s lead and lights up again, even though he’s still half-hard and wants to see what Robert has on offer. He’s really enjoying this quiet interlude with his newest friend but _fuck_ he really wants to get laid too. Instead of high-tailing it back into the club, he inhales a lungful of smoke, exhales slowly, and then asks with a teasing lilt to his voice, “So what about Xavier then? Gonna take him home or what?”

The flush, which had all but disappeared from Draco’s face, flares at the tips of Draco’s ears again, but Draco seems fairly composed when he replies quietly, “I...I’m just...”

Harry smirks, because Draco hadn’t really denied it, and says airily, “Experimenting?” Draco flips two fingers his way with a scowl, and Harry returns the gesture, though his lips widen into a wicked grin instead. Then he adds, “It’s okay, y’know. Everyone can tell you’re new in this scene, and since Xavier’s still flirting with you, it’s pretty easy to deduce that he doesn’t mind being your test dummy. Some people get off on being someone’s first, and Xavier’s gorgeous anyway. Go for it, and if he gets more handsy than you’re comfortable with, just break his jaw with your fist and send him on his way.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “I’m not going to break his jaw, you idiot. I’d probably break my hand trying, and I don’t want to tumble into St Mungos in my condition.”

“I’m just saying, it’s an option,” Harry says nonchalantly, waving his hand around in an absent motion before taking another drag. His mouth feels dry, and he really wants another drink or a hard cock in his mouth. Christ, he really _is_ a randy fucker tonight, and Harry fully blames the tequila. “He seems like a level-headed bloke though, so I’m sure you won’t have too much trouble getting him into your bed for some... _practical investigation_ , if you know what I mean.” Harry tacks on some eyebrow wiggles at the end for added emphasis.

“Don’t be uncouth, Harry,” Draco drawls with a flick of his glitter-covered hair, but his embarrassment is belied by the increasing redness of his cheekbones.

Harry decides to go for broke: “Fine then, you won’t have trouble fucking him into a mattress, or vice versa if that’s what you wanna try. Trust me, both options are equally brill.”

“Oh fuck off,” Draco snaps, but it’s rather good-natured despite the words. Harry snickers in response and takes the final drag of his cigarette, and they both crush their fag-ends out into the tray in tandem, though Harry with his right hand and Draco with his left. “Let’s go back inside,” Draco says, standing up and refitting his nonchalant mask back on his face, though the flush and his bright eyes gives him away. “I’m freezing my fucking bollocks off out here.”

Harry’s too worked up and sozzled to really register the cold or tease Draco about speaking all common-like, but he nods gravely in agreement as he stands up. “I dunno about the freezing part, but I’m ready to head in myself. I have an understanding to make, and if that goes well, a show to put on.”

They make their way back inside, the music loud as all hell after the relative silence of the balcony, and Draco yells in Harry’s ear, “Just keep your clothes on, Potter.”

“But _Mum_!” Harry mocks in a whine, and Harry’s delighted when Draco just laughs, his teeth glistening in the flashing lights of the club.

Harry winks at him, then his eyes search their table to find Robert, and after that he can’t tear his eyes away. The bloody bastard is shirtless, his pale skin blemish free and hairless though sprinkled with purple glitter, and his navel is pierced with a single silver bar. He’s sprawled on a section of the booth, legs spread and wanton, and he’s sucking a lime into his mouth as his dark eyes burn a hole into Harry. Harry’s mouth positively waters, and his flagging cock immediately perks to full attention at the sight of such a lovely specimen of man who seems to be gagging for it just as much as Harry is.

Harry saunters his way over, falling to his knees in between Robert’s thighs, and he drags his hands up the entire length of him, starting with his ankles and ending in his hair. Harry’s pleased to feel Robert shudder, his chest breaking into gooseflesh at the sensation. Leaning into Robert’s ear, his lips teasingly brushing the shell, Harry says, “If you’re looking for a simple pull or three, I’m game. But if you’re looking for more, you need to tell me to fuck off right now and go find someone else willing to oblige.”

Robert grabs a fistful of Harry’s wild hair, drags his face closer so they can look at each other dead-on, and replies heatedly, “I’m much too young to settle down. Now kiss me.”

Obviously, Harry obliges.

Everything fades away but the warm slickness of Robert’s mouth that tastes of lime and salt and tequila, the flicker of their tongues, the touch of hands on skin and clothes, the deep beat of the music in their blood and bones. Fuck, Harry’s missed this, connecting to another human being in the most primal manner they’re capable of, nothing but heat and desire between them until it rages in an uncontrollable fire. Harry sucks Robert’s tongue into his mouth, so turned on at the guttural moan he rips from Robert’s throat, and Harry can’t stop moving his hands across warm, taut skin. His knees are aching from the hard floor but he doesn’t care, too caught up in the sensation of it all.

Harry tears their mouths apart with a gasp and then licks his way to Robert’s ear, pressing his tongue into the pressure point underneath the shell before taking the lobe in between his teeth, letting it drag out slowly. His fingers dig into Robert’s skin, likely leaving long pink lines in their wake, before he starts playing with the flat, hardened nubs of Robert’s nipples. Robert simply groans lowly, fingernails digging into Harry’s scalp, and the sharp pain is glorious, going straight to Harry’s prick. Unfortunately, it doesn’t last long, Robert jerking him back for another heated kiss before his hands begin tugging on Harry’s shirt, breathing heavily into Harry’s mouth, “Off, take it off, I want to see you.”

They pull apart and Harry’s shirt is yanked up from his waist, Harry’s glasses nearly flying before he manages to tear them off himself, absently putting them on the table to his left before his hands are back on that skin, lightly slick with sweat. Harry kisses his way down Robert’s throat and chest, tugging lightly at a nipple with his teeth as his hands trail heatedly down to the waistband of Robert’s tight jeans.

That’s when Blaise breaks them up, the fucker.

“See what I mean, Draco?” Blaise drawls as Harry blinks up at him dazedly, breathing heavy and his heart racing, hands still on Robert’s knees but bodily pulled away enough. “He’s in law enforcement, but he’s always a second away from getting himself arrested anyway. No one wants to see you suck this kid’s cock, Potter.”

Harry laughs at the automatic chorus of _yes we do_! from probably every warm body in the VIP section, bouncer and bartender included.

Robert pulls him back, but there’s no frantic snogging unfortunately. Robert simply sits him down, straddles him again (and _fuck_ Harry can feel Robert’s hard prick pressing deliciously against his own), places Harry’s glasses back on his face, and then says mischievously, “D’you wanna get outta here? My place is free of...interference.” Robert gives a pointed look to Harry’s wedding ring, which he hasn’t taken off.

He won’t either. It’s tied to Ginny’s magic, and if she’s in trouble, he’ll feel it through the ring instantly. The three other pieces of jewellery he’s wearing – his Prewett watch for James, a leather bracelet on his right wrist for Albus, and another ring on his right middle finger for Lily – are tied to his kids in the same way. All four pieces are word-activated Portkeys as well, though it had been a right nightmare getting the permits for them, but he likes the idea of being able to intervene at a moment’s notice despite his location.

Harry’s ridiculously tempted to take Robert’s offer. “No, not quite yet,” Harry says begrudgingly, Robert snickering at the put-out expression that’s probably glaringly obvious on Harry’s face. “After Charlie and Draco either pull or head home, abso-fucking-lutely, but until then, we’re going to have to make do with being _fucking frustrated_ , you fucking _wanker_.” At the last bit, he’s glaring at the laughing Blaise, who’s already back in Ginny’s arms, and he debates on throwing another beer cup his way. He ultimately decides not to, considering Ginny’s already teasingly necking the bastard, and he doesn’t want to drawl her ire at any interruption.

“And we can go to mine,” Harry says, already looking forward to seeing all of Robert’s pale skin contrasting beautifully with his dark grey sheets. “I’ve my own flat in Camden, and besides, I don’t give a rat’s arse what my wife thinks. She’s fucking a bloody tosser and clearly has horrendous taste in men.”

Ginny disconnects herself from sucking a deep bruise on Blaise’s neck and gives him a sour look, though her eyes are glowing with mischievous amusement. “Fuck you, you arrogant sod. I’m right here,” she yells at him over the music.

Half the bloody table starts laughing incredulously, while Robert chokes on his ale. “ _She’s_ your wife?!” he practically shrieks, and Harry can’t help but join in with the sniggering, though he does try to soothe the surprise by rubbing his hands along Robert’s lightly muscled arms.

“I’m not a fucking tosser, you tosser,” Blaise shouts, giving Harry the two-finger salute, which Harry returns in kind.

“Don’t worry,” Harry says in Robert’s ear, “she’s no threat to you. Especially since I’m sure she’s going to be shagged six ways to Sunday by that oaf she calls a boyfriend, and they’ll be at his flat in Westminster.”

“You’re actually alright with this?” Robert asks Ginny loudly, seemingly ignoring Harry’s words. Harry shares a look with Draco, who’s positively pink as he laughs at the dramatics (or Xavier being pressed against him, the man’s index finger lightly twirling against the short blond hairs on the back of Draco’s head), but they’re both on the same page about how incredibly dull this all is. Obviously Robert’s lack of morality is biting him in the arse, since he’s supposedly staring at the face of the woman scorned.

Harry just hopes it doesn’t kill the mood. Sometimes it does, and it’s terrible when that happens, especially since Harry’s so turned on that he can barely see straight.  Or not so straight.

Ginny just shrugs, snuggling into Blaise’s side comfortably and picking up her martini. “I don’t see why not. It’s not like we’re in love with each other or anything. Just make sure you make him beg for mercy, and I think we’ll call it good.” She takes a sip and then winks at them both.

Harry rolls his eyes and decides that another topic of conversation and more shots are in order. Preferably sooner rather than later.

He hops up, adjusting his hard prick without any shame, and then makes his way to the bar after putting his glasses back on. He’s a tad unsteady on his feet, and everything has a blurry edge to it, but he makes it there in one piece, placing his elbows on the bar and fluttering his fingers teasingly at the handsome bartender. “Can we get a round of tequila? Put it on Zabini’s tab, because he deserves to be punished.”

“Kinky,” the bartender says, leering at Harry. As he sets out a tray and arranges fourteen shot glasses, he continues, “Hell of a show you put on there. Shame he put a stop to it.”

Harry huffs with a good-natured air and complains, “Tell me about it. Fucking wanker.”

The bartender pours the shots and scoops out some lime wedges into a small bowl, counting to make sure there’s at least fourteen, and then replies, “Only thing better would be to see that blond next to you get snogged by Mr Dark Chocolate. Make it happen and I’ll buy your next bloody round.”

Harry grins wickedly as he pulls out a tenner. “No need for that, since Blaise needs to be taught a lesson.” He hands the bill to the bartender with a wink and adds, “Please, one for yourself, you gorgeous bastard, and I’ll see what I can do.” He trades the note for the tray, and with a quick “Cheers!” Harry carefully ambles back to their table, placing the drinks down after Trixie clears a spot. There’s a mad grab for the salt shakers scattered on their long table, and brazenly Harry licks a stripe onto Robert’s wrist, his grin never wavering as he sprinkles salt on the wet skin. Harry’s grin fades into a low groan when Robert returns the favour, and then there’s a loud shriek of laughter from the table.

He glances over and every molecule of air is forced from his lungs when he sees Xavier licking his own stripe, but it’s on Draco’s bared neck, and the look on Draco’s face is sublime. His grey eyes are as dark as charcoal and half-lidded as he tilts his head to the side, clearly watching Xavier lean back to sprinkle the salt, and his shapely lips are slightly parted. His cheekbones are dusted with the usual flush, and Harry knows instinctively that it’s not from the heat or the alcohol but instead from the overload of sensation he’s probably feeling.

Blaise is being his usual boisterous self, laughing at the scene while simultaneously egging them on, and Draco hesitates for only a second before his hand pushes Xavier away and against the back of the booth. Xavier only has a moment to blink before Draco’s gracefully manoeuvring himself around the table, booth, and Xavier himself, careful to not knock his hips or arse into the table as he settles himself into Xavier’s lap with a smirk on his lips. He wiggles a bit to get comfortable, which makes Xavier bite his lip hard enough to go pale, and then Draco slowly leans down and licks a bit tentatively at Xavier’s bare shoulder before sprinkling the salt.

Harry can’t help but laugh at the sight of Draco looking so pleased with himself and Xavier shuddering visibly, though Harry’s mouth is quite dry.

Then there’s three bangs against the table – Harry and Robert share a quick grin before they scramble for their respective shots and lime wedges – and at the third bang, Harry and Robert simultaneously lift their respective wrists, licking off the salt before knocking back the tequila, quickly biting into the limes with practically identical pinched expressions. Robert immediately breaks into laughter and turns in the seat so he can bury his face into Harry’s neck, lips and teeth enticingly moving against Harry’s skin. Harry’s eyes flutter but don’t close, because he curiously glances over towards Draco and his ‘Mr Dark Chocolate’ as the bartender called him.

Draco’s obviously done licking the salt from Xavier’s shoulder, as the lime wedge is still caught between his teeth, but it’s clearly an absent thing because his eyes are closed and his head is bowed, blond hair hanging to contrast brightly against the dark skin of Xavier’s shoulder. Draco’s fingers are clenched into Xavier’s biceps and his hips are making the smallest of involuntary movements against Xavier’s – _holy hell would you look at that!_ Harry thinks to himself, mouth open at the sight of Draco losing control. Harry can’t see what Xavier’s doing since his face is buried into the other side of Draco’s neck, but there’s one shot that hasn’t been downed on the table, and Xavier’s obviously more concerned with licking or sucking off the salt, hands on Draco’s thin hips and their bodies fused together.

Xavier pulls away and lifts one hand up to pull Draco’s face gently towards him, and they both look at each other for a long moment before Draco’s pulling out the lime wedge and tossing it absently behind him, both of their faces meeting in the middle like magnets.

Harry can see their hands moving against each other, Draco’s fingers scratching in the short curls of Xavier’s head and Xavier palming down Draco’s arched back until they’re back at Draco’s hips, moving them together in a relatively tame but heated glide. Harry can feel his own prick like a goddamn beacon, throbbing painfully in his trousers, and it’s fucking gorgeous watching two men who look like Draco and Xavier snog in front of everyone.

Harry forces his eyes away when Robert glances up, and they share a wicked grin before Harry makes himself look at Blaise, just to see how Draco’s best friend is taking it.

There’s an expression on Blaise’s face as he watches Draco that’s like a kick to the gut, it’s so soft, and Harry smiles at him. Blaise’s dark eyes meet Harry’s, and they share a moment of solitude, because it’s _good_ that Draco’s starting to get out of his grief-darkened shell and meet some people, experiment with life a bit. Maybe Blaise is thinking something more than just that, but nevertheless Harry feels content with knowing that this was a job well done on at least that end.

Harry finally winks at Blaise and then turns his attention back to Draco. They’ve stopped snogging for the time being, but Xavier is saying something in Draco’s ear. Draco stiffens for a single second before he relaxes fully, and he turns his head towards Harry with a raised eyebrow. Harry gives him a leer and some wiggled eyebrows in return, and Draco simply rolls his eyes, but there’s a shyness in his gaze that Harry’s never really seen before. Then those hazy grey eyes sharpen and then he’s dragging himself out of Xavier’s lap and pulling him out of the booth with a smirk, Blaise roaring with laughter from the other end.

“We’re leaving,” Draco yells, trying to be heard over the pounding base as he lowers his head towards Harry and Robert, who’s grinning himself. Harry glances at Charlie once, and he shoots Harry a thumbs up with a quick head gesture to the guy he’s been chatting up all night.

Satisfied that the second-oldest Weasley has pulled, Harry bellows back, “Have fun, blondie. Give me a ring if you need me to sort this one out, yeah?”

Xavier grins a bit sheepishly and bends down as well, ruffling Robert’s hair absently as he adds loudly, “I promise I’ll take care of him. Feel free to knock me about if he tells you different, Chief Inspector.”

Harry, who knows without a doubt that Draco can certainly take care of himself, just laughs and says, “Get the fuck outta here then, so I can get home and fuck this one into the mattress.”

Robert shudders against him, and Draco rolls his eyes once again before he flicks his fingers in Blaise and Ginny’s direction and heads down the stairs towards the dance floor and the exit, pulling Xavier with him.

Harry, obviously, doesn’t wait around much longer himself, and bustles his own bloke back to Camden after finding his shirt, where they spend the rest of the weekend making each other scream. Draco doesn’t call until Robert’s already gone, needing to go to his Monday classes, and when they meet up for a late lunch, Draco doesn’t talk about what happened with Xavier, though he is a bit pink and distracted throughout it all.

Harry doesn’t push.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art in this part by [marshview](https://marshview-lim.tumblr.com/).


	4. A Confession

#### Four

_Tuesday, 08 June 2021_

 

Draco pops his head into Harry’s office at eleven, looking a bit stretched thin to be frank.

“Angelo’s?” he asks in a drone that could be a statement rather than a question (and Harry’s fairly certain it’s meant to be a question, as they hadn’t any plans), and then turns on his heel and closes the door behind him without waiting for an answer.

Harry, who’s neck deep in paperwork, memos, and packages, all of which have to be done _yesterday_ , gratefully drops his biro and high-tails it the fuck right out of said office to give chase. He’s been at it for bloody days, and perhaps most of it is his own fault – he wants to get the major chunk of his backlog done before the kids head home for the summer hols in a few weeks, because he doesn’t want to be stuck in the office while they’re home – but he’s sick and tired of reading and cursing and amending and signing and calling his secretary to take the finished bits away.

He rushes out the door, barely managing to shrug off his robe to chuck on the corner sofa before he’s escaped his office, and he tells Nancy quickly, “Headed for some nibbles, be back in an hour or so.” She calls out a “yes sir!” but he’s already weaving through the foot traffic of the DMLE, trying to catch up to the tall blond before he makes it to the terminal. It’s not like Harry couldn’t find Draco outside of the Ministry, of course, since Angelo’s is a favourite haunt of theirs, but he still wants to catch him before he Apparates out, because the walk from the Islington point to Angelo’s is part of the charm.

Luckily, Draco’s queueing at the terminal and Harry hops in front of everyone else with a sheepish grin at the mumbles. Personally, Harry prefers said mumbles rather than the shrieking and fawning from right after the war, but he disregards the thought in favour of bumping shoulders with Draco and trying to catch his breath from his mad dash. Christ, but Harry is starting to feel the strain of both his age and his desk job, and vows to double his time at the gym before his body starts succumbing to inactivity.

By the time Harry’s heartbeat is back to normal, they’ve made it to the terminal, and Harry allows Draco to Side-Along him to the Apparition point in Islington. There’s the brief squeeze, and then they’re there in a side alley that’s been warded from Muggles and their toys. There’s a CCTV camera facing directly towards them, but the video goes to a special department in the Muggle government to be later transported to the DMLE if needed for any reason, same as every other country with a magical community; Harry gives it a cheeky wave before Draco huffs with exasperation and heads out of the alley.

They walk in companionable silence through and around the markets, bistros, and shops, the warm day pleasant after a full morning underground. Harry likes this part about Draco, the part where they don’t really need to fill silences with inane chatter, and he doesn’t take it for granted, even though he’s burning with curiosity at the impromptu lunch. Draco’s usually very organised when it comes to his affairs, be it a meeting or lunch or whatever else, and he doesn’t like surprises. He prefers everything to planned to the minute detail, the complete opposite of Harry really, and if it’s not pencilled into his diary at least a good twenty-four hours in advance, chances are that Draco’s not going to oblige. Therefore, it’s very strange that Draco’s spontaneously dragged Harry out to lunch with a single word, but if there’s anything that Harry’s learnt from having kids, it’s patience, and he’s certainly not going to push until Draco’s ready to...do whatever it is he wants or needs to do.

And it’s clear that Draco needs to talk. He’s been on edge for months really, and it’s been showing by the dark circles and his increasing snappishness (though he does taper it down around Harry and the rest of their friends, thankfully).  Harry wonders if it has anything to do with what happened back in March or if it’s something else that’s bothering him.

Angelo’s is fairly busy when they meander inside, which isn’t unusual, but luckily they get a seat within ten minutes of waiting. They both smile at Havva, the daughter of the owner who’s working herself through uni for both her parents and the pocket change, and place their usual orders – hummus to share during the mains, beef shawarma with a Turkish salad for Harry and lamb skewers with a green toss for Draco, and a water each of course – before Draco takes a deep breath and finally meets Harry’s eyes.

Draco’s mouth moves a few times but no sound comes out, and he clears his throat after a moment of trying to speak. Harry just waits, resisting the urge to either fidget with the edge of his napkin or tell Draco to just spit it out, and simply watches Draco with increasing concern. He seems fairly agitated, now that Harry’s had a proper look at him. His pale hair, normally so harshly slicked back that it looks like it’s receding (especially now since his hair is starting to show light streaks of silver in the midst of all the platinum blond, and it’s _really_ not a good look for him in Harry’s opinion), is loose and brushed back with careless fingers, though bits of it keep falling forward into his eyes. His lips are pressed together so tightly that the skin matches the porcelain of his surrounding face. The corner of his eyes are tight, the slight hint of crows feet the only sign of Draco’s increasing age other than the silver strands in his hair, and the grey orbs are bright, as if he’s either on the verge of panicking or trying to hold back an overwhelming emotion. Even Havva notices that Draco’s a bit unhinged because she shoots Harry a worried glance when she drops off their waters.

Honestly, Harry hasn’t seen him so frayed since...well, probably since Astoria’s funeral, and he’s actually starting to get a bit worried.

Draco blinks at him and then finally blurts out, “I’m bent.”

It’s a bit louder than either one of them had expected, but other than a few glances in their direction, the patrons of the Mediterranean bistro ignore the confession. Harry just blinks himself, rather confused now, because he’s not sure why Draco looks like he’s about to jump out of his skin at the slightest whisper, especially about something like sexuality to _Harry_ of all people.

Slowly, Harry replies, “Okay? Congratulations?”

Draco scowls at him, and the usual teasing air is completely gone, to Harry’s utter surprise. Before he can ask what in the hell is going on, Draco continues in a somewhat hysterical hiss, hands clenched into white fists on the table, “That’s it? Congratulations? I’m having a fucking life crisis here and that’s all you have to say? _Fuck_ you, Potter.”

Harry raises his hands up in appeasement, refusing to break eye contact and hoping that Draco can see Harry’s genuine confusion. “I don’t understand,” he says honestly. “Do you think that I’m going to look at you differently or something? Because I’m really confused as to why you’re freaking out on me right now.”

Draco visibly grinds his teeth and then spits out with a venom that reminds Harry of sixth year, “Are you out of your mind? I’m–I’m fucking _confused_ right now, and I don’t understand what this _means_ , for my life or my bloody relationships or if I’m just imag—”

“Oh!” Harry exclaims then, because the metaphorical lightbulb over his head has clicked on with sudden brightness, sort of like those Muggle programmes that Lily used to giggle at when she was a little tot, and Harry _gets_ it now. Draco’s face is going pink with rage, either at being interrupted or at Harry’s seemingly thick head or something, and there’s a truly ugly expression on his face that hints at future murder, but Harry doesn’t even give him a moment to say a word. Instead, Harry continues in a quiet rush of air, “This is about Astoria, isn’t it?”

The ugly expression immediately shifts into something that Harry thinks is fear, but Harry’s on his own roll now. Besides, knowing Draco, he’s probably been freaking out for ages about this, bottling it up and spinning himself up instead of trying to work through it, and Harry figures that it’s probably better to just do the talking until Draco really says what’s on his mind.

Harry cocks his head and rambles on, “I mean, obviously Scorp isn’t going to give two shits about it – Albus is pretty sure _he’s_ queer in some way and God knows Scorp is aware that I fiddle with all sides meself – so he’s probably just going to be confused or curious at first. And then there’s your own mum, who loves you more than anyone I’ve ever seen in my life and would accept you no matter what, and even if your dad was still alive, he probably wouldn’t be bothered since you have yourself a nice, pure-blooded kid. So it’s just Astoria then, that’s what this is. It all comes full-circle to Astoria.” Harry shakes his head at Draco, frowning slightly, and he finishes with a blunt earnestness, “Jesus Draco, being queer doesn’t _invalidate_ your love for her.”

Draco just stares at Harry for a long while, mouth slightly open and eyes still bright, and Harry lets Draco process that for the inevitable counter-argument he’ll make. It’s quiet enough that Harry can hear the murmur of conversation and the clink of tableware around him, but he’s still not bothered by the silence of their own table. He just chooses to watch Draco, all of micro-expressions that flicker on his face, Harry’s heart heavy when Havva brings their meals after fifteen minutes of silence and still Draco doesn’t look away, though his eyes are now clouded and a thousand miles gone.

Harry gives him a tentative smile and then picks up his fork, which seems to bring Draco back to the world of the living. He blinks rapidly and then looks down to his food, face as grey as his eyes and hands still clenched. Harry just starts to eat, barely even tasting the shawarma and the pita with hummus as he continues to let Draco process. Harry’s learnt patience, after all, and this is one hell of a time to put that into practise.

Harry’s only a few bites in when Draco whispers, “How can it not? Doesn’t it mean that it was all a lie, that what Astoria and I had was forced upon both of us by our oppressive upbringing? That I was never truly happy with her because I didn’t even know any better?”

Harry swallows, takes a sip of water, and gathers his thoughts together before he answers quietly, “Do you even know how rare it is to find someone completes you so well that sexuality is a non-issue? Most people go their entire lives without experiencing something like that, inside _or_ outside their sexuality. I know _I’ve_ never had that. I mean, Gin and I are close but we’ve never had that...that _thing_ , y’know, where you just completely and totally complete another person. I reckon the closest I’ve ever gotten is with Ron and Hermione, and obviously that’s not a romantic thing, _thank God_.” Harry shudders slightly, because it really is a horrifying thought, but continues on, “But you’ve already had it. Anyone who looked at the two of you knew that you were gone for each other and sure, maybe you’re finding out that you’re a flaming queer in your forties, but that doesn’t mean that you loved her any less. If anything, it means that you loved her even _more_ , because it blew past all the superficial sexual shit and really mattered in the end, y’know? Circe, Draco, don’t you see how lucky you are, to’ve had that as young as you did?”

Harry pauses for a moment, taking a sip of his water to lubricate his throat again, and then continues, “Besides, you understand that Astoria was the most liberal conservative I’ve ever had the utmost pleasure to meet, and would’ve been tickled at this development, right? She only ever wanted you to be happy, and if she was still here, she wouldn’t fault you for it. Knowing that crazy cow—” At this, Harry shoots him a grin, and Draco’s lips twitch in the ghost of a smile at the old tease between Harry and Astoria when she had been alive. “—she probably would’ve let you experiment anyway, either with other boys or with a damn Polyjuice, and I’d bet the victory against Voldemort that it wouldn’t have come between the two of you either. She was a gem of a woman, and fucking hell Draco, she would’ve loved you none-the-less, and I’m damned sure that you being bent wouldn’t have changed how you felt for her either.”

Draco’s eyes are more misty than bright at this point, and though the deep grief and fear is still evident, Harry can see the hope and even _acceptance_ that’s beginning to show. It’s a good thing too, because Harry stands by every damned word of his long-winded monologue – Astoria Malfoy had been one _hell_ of a woman, a woman the world needed a billion or so more of, and something as skin-deep as Draco’s heavily-suppressed sexuality coming to light wouldn’t have bothered her. She would’ve had fun with it, the bloody pervert.

Harry smiles to himself at that latter thought, a bit wistful and sad but ultimately happy, because he had genuinely adored her and her properly becoming, but refreshingly devilish look at life.

Quietly, Harry concludes with a pointed look in Draco’s direction, “Look, it’s not necessarily a popular opinion in the queer community, Muggle _or_ Wizarding, but we’re allowed to have exceptions. Sometimes love comes from weird fucking places, and we sure as hell can’t predict or explain it. It just _happens_ , and when it does, we have to grab it with both hands and hold it ‘til it’s gone. Otherwise, what’s the point of it all? We’re just sacks of meat with no purpose if we don’t shrug off the labels we give ourselves and take a chance sometimes, even if it’s not what we would’ve ever expected.” Harry sighs, and adds, “Besides, there’s a reason why Mysteries has a whole bloody department dedicated to research on love. It’s messy and complicated and doesn’t follow the rules of physics and nobody can ever truly understand it. We just gotta live a little and learn to live outside the boxes we’re placed in when a door opens, y’know? And that’s what you did with Astoria. Sure, you were repressed and were never given the opportunity to really know yourself until now, but that doesn’t change the fact that you and Astoria had twelve wonderful years together that no one can take away from you, and you can’t ignore the fact that she gave you Scorpius too. Where in the fuck would we be without that little squirt, eh?”

Draco laughs, but it’s a wet sound, and he furiously rubs at the corner of his right eye with the palm of his hand. Harry can tell that he’s practically on the brink of tears, and likely hates it because he’s losing his composure in public (and in a Muggle restaurant, no less). Harry decides to give him a moment to pull himself together and focusses back on his shawarma, though it’s fairly lukewarm by now. It’s still delicious, of course, but he hadn’t expected to really have this conversation on their hour lunch break. They’ve been inside for almost forty minutes and they’re going to have to pack up instead of finishing like usual with enough time for a few triangles of baklava and a Turkish coffee to savour.

Still though, he’s happy they’ve had it. They have years for lunches at Angelo’s to look forward to, but only one moment to have this conversation. He’s hopes that Draco’s gotten something out of it and at least feels a bit more secure about his relationship with his late wife in regards to the confusing array of emotions he’s probably feeling.

Harry’s lucky, really. He’d always been of the idea that anything the Dursleys found ‘unnatural’ or ‘evil’ – magic, people of colour, magic, homosexuality, magic, non-Christian religions, magic, transgender people, magic, women’s rights, _magic_ , etcetera and so on – was probably something that Harry needed to be accepting and passionate about. Which he is, really, not just out of petty revenge but also because it’s the right thing to do. The Dursleys were certainly fucking wankers about everything Equal-Rights-Associated, though Dudley’s mellowed out a hell of a lot since moving out, and Harry won’t have a thing to do with anything they had found wholesome and proper.

Therefore, the second he had recognised in himself that he liked boys as much as girls, and eventually everyone in between just as much as the binary as well, he had embraced it after only a few measly months of being lost in his skin. He isn’t a poster child for sexual variability in the Wizarding world (though Hermione occasionally lectures him on the good it would do if he was), but he had accepted himself at a very young age and hadn’t had a drawn-out identity crisis that a lot of witches and wizards dealt with when coming to terms with themselves.

So, in a way, Harry can’t really empathise with what Draco’s going through. He’s seen loads of people come to terms with their desires, but he’s never really experienced it himself with that much intensity, and therefore he hopes he’s put things into a bit of perspective for his friend despite Harry’s gap in understanding.  He just wants to help, and he prays that he has helped Draco.

And judging by the fact that Draco is practically falling apart with a look of profound relief hidden behind a curtain of pale hair, Harry’s pretty sure he has.

 

—

 

_Thursday, 17 June 2021_

 

Draco and Harry wait for the Hogwarts train at King’s Cross.

Harry’s practically bouncing in his seat as they wait for the train to come in at five, though it is a bit bittersweet – it’s the last summer hols he’ll have with James, as he’s now officially a Seventh form and will graduate with his classmates in only a year. Still, it’s been positively ages since he’s seen his children, as they had all elected to stay at Hogwarts during East—Ostara. _Ostara_. He always forgets that it’s Ostara in the Wizarding world, and can’t help but fall back on his Muggle upbringing, even at forty-years-old.

Even though it’s not _really_ Ostara, not like the Muggles see it. The Wizarding world has a long tradition of their own version of the old religion, a frankly whimsical one to be quite honest and without the dilution of the Abrahamic religions due to the isolationism of Wizarding folk, though most people who immerse themselves in Wizarding culture end up following it in the end. Harry himself is unapologetically atheist, though very appreciative of the old customs, but he’s one of the spare few (Hermione obviously amongst that number, though she had grown up a secular Jew) that is. He’s only can think of three people that don’t follow the old religion other than Harry and Hermione: Tony Goldstein, who’s a practising Jew, and the Patil twins, who are Buddhist. Perhaps there are more, but Harry’s never been really interested in comparative religion so he hasn’t made an effort to find out. Despite having experienced the insane world of magic at eleven, and all of the unbelievable things that come with that, he’s never been able to really connect with the idea of a god, or gods-plural.

Besides, his family and friends cover the intricate details covering the old ways. Harry’s just there to drink wine and eat a lot of food like a total barbarian.

He can’t help but think of his baby boy, all grown up now. James is seventeen now and of age, and next year he’ll be settling into his three-year Charms secondary before he goes on to do whatever speciality catches his eye. It’s such a strange thing, remembering that first moment when he held James in his arms – all red and gooey and wailing with clenched eyes and a stump where his umbilical cord had been attached – and knowing that’s he’s a man now, ready for the world and old enough to marry should he wish it. He wonders where the time went, and misses giving piggy-back rides and playing Quidditch in the garden with brooms that were made for toddlers, unable to break ten miles per hour or hover more than a metre off the ground. Instead, there’s this man in his place, taller than Harry himself with those Weasley genes and keen brown eyes that are capable of understanding the intricacies of this world without a childlike lens. It almost breaks his heart, knowing that the first of his children is ready to trek out on his own without his parents to shelter him, and there’s not a damned thing that he can do about it because his baby boy is an adult now.

He’s not sure what he’ll do when they’re all grown and out of the house. Lily still has a while to go, of course, but she’s officially a Third form and Harry knows from experience now that it’ll be gone in a blink of an eye. She’s already dead-set on being a Quidditch player like her mum, and so fiercely independent like her too; gone are the days of tea parties and stuffed animals and bedtime stories read ‘ _with all the voices Daddy!_ ’ Now she’s giggling about boys and wearing make-up but still flying around with her team-mates on the field as they practise for the next match, grass in her flaming red hair and a smudge of dirt on her freckled cheek. He wonders how much she’s grown since the Yule hols, because girls stop growing faster than boys and pretty soon she’ll be all grown up too, as short as Molly at the least and as tall as her namesake at the most.

And _oh_ , his Albus, Harry’s precious little Albus, who is so much like Harry that he almost can’t hold in all the love he feels for him. He loves all of his children, more than anyone in this world, more than _life_ , but there’s always been something about Albus that is simply _easier_ , because James and Lily are Weasley through-and-through, while Albus is Harry’s little shadow, all knobbly knees and messy hair and stubborn instinct and the awkwardness that comes from trying to carve out a place to fit into despite not being _normal_. He’s still so brave for taking on the things that he does – a Potter in Slytherin, a boy who’s likely queer, who looks and _is_ so much like Harry that people want to surround him, not on his own merit but because of a legacy that Harry hadn’t wanted to be a part of but was forced to be nonetheless.

He loves his kids, who aren’t really children any more but always will be in Harry’s eyes, and he simply cannot contain his joy and excitement at the idea that he’ll be able to see them in only a handful of minutes.

Draco is more subdued with his own excitement, though Harry can see the glint in his eye and the small, perpetual smile that softens his face, though there’s an occasional nervous drum of his fingers on the bench that he either can’t or won’t stop. Draco seems lighter, and Harry’s pleased that Draco’s come to terms with what he’s discovered about himself, but Harry doesn’t blame him for being nervous. After all, he’s been on his own for a while now, only seeing Scorpius during the two-week Yule hols and over a weekend after Lucius’s death, and he’s going to be coming out as well. It’s a lot to put on a parent, and Harry’s been shooting him mental cheers of good luck since the conversation at Angelo’s.

God knows that Harry doesn’t envy Draco’s position, though he _does_ think that it’ll be easier than Draco thinks.

With a distracted air, Harry continues watching the flow of parents and guardians as they arrive at the platform, some harried but most looking exuberant.  He has the next fortnight off, thank God, though he’ll probably have to pop into the office a few times just to make sure the DMLE doesn’t spontaneously fall to pieces in his absence; the DMLE is a well-oiled machine post-war, with very capable people at each helm of leadership, but he’s seen some wild things happen during the summer holiday.  With all the kids coming back from Hogwarts, there’s going to be loads of underage magic, Muggle exposure to magic, and other related infractions – between wanting to show off their newly-learnt skills, the urge to play pranks and have fun, and the summer hols homework, kids are always breaking the law and getting themselves into trouble.  Not to mention that there’s now a bundle of newly-of-age witches and wizards coming home from Hogwarts, like James himself, and they _always_ end up causing a ruckus somewhere or another, drunk on their excitement of legality.

The summer hols are always a pain in the arse, hence the reason why everyone tries to book the first few weeks off.  Harry – being both the Department Head and, well, himself – has always managed to snatch the first two weeks for his time off since the kids had started popping off to Hogwarts.  He figures that, since he paid his dues during that window by being willing to work when others with Hogwarts-aged children didn’t want to, _and_ since he’s running the entire DMLE, he’s allowed the liberties.  The mild guilt can just continue smouldering in the darkest corner of his mind, and besides, soon he’ll not have to worry about it, as in five years all his kids will be out of school.

Partly because he’s curious, but mostly because he wants to get both of their minds off the nerve-wracking emotions they’re both feeling, Harry asks, “You doing anything with Scorpius?  Well, other than coming round to the house on Saturday for dinner?”

Draco gives one of those one-shouldered shrugs that exaggerates the boniness of his shoulder, the fingers of his left hand idly tracing a design on his thigh, and replies, “Going to see Mother and Aunt Andromeda, if he’s up to it, and then a quiet dinner at home.  I want him to try and finish at least his Charms homework before we head over to yours, else he’ll weasel all the answers from James and won’t learn a thing.”  Harry grins at that.  “Other than that, I don’t particularly have any plans, unless he fancies doing something.”

“The boys are going to be keen for the back-and-forth,” Harry mentions.  “How long should we let them beg before we put them out of their misery?  Homework done, like usual, or should we _really_ make them suffer?”

Draco curls his hands together in his lap.  “Normally I’d be keen on that suggestion just for propriety’s sake, but I’ve an inkling that he’ll need someone to talk to after this evening’s...discussion of sorts.  It seems a bit cruel to confine Scorpius to the Manor with only owls for communication.  Merlin knows he’s already too isolated.”

“I think you’re underestimating him,” Harry interjects honestly, though he agrees that Scorpius is a bit isolated.  Or a _lot_ isolated.  Then again, so’s Albus, but they both seem to prefer it so Harry’s hasn’t the heart to try and force them to socialise.

Draco continues as if Harry’s not just spoken, “Not to mention that they’re used to studying and doing their homework together in any case.  I think that, since they’re about to gear up for their O.W.L.s, it might be best to just let them have at.  That being said, let’s leave the sleeping over for when they’re finished, as per usual.”

Harry sighs but agrees with a small smile, and then adds, “You should just stay when he does.  God knows that you’ve already taken over the first storey.  I can’t even walk from ground to second without getting blond hair on my fucking robes, and since you’re the only blond in the place until Scorp burrows in...”

“Perhaps Blaise and Ginevra have a blond paramour that they’re hiding from you,” Draco quips with a smirk, and fuck, that’s a horrid thought.  Harry adores Ginny and Blaise both, but he _doesn’t_ want to know what those two get up to in the bedroom.  Besides, Harry’s been abstinent since that Robert bloke a few months previously, and he really doesn’t need the reminder that Ginny’s been having much more fun in that regard than Harry has.

Harry hadn’t been lying when he’d told Blaise that they were getting too old for it all, and Harry _is_.  He might not necessarily look like he’s about to turn forty-one, but _fuck_ he feels it.  He’s already trying to psych himself up to the cold, hard fact that someday very soon, he’s going to be single and alone and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it.  Harry’s never been by himself before – not since before he’d turned eleven and met Ron and Hermione at least – and even though Ginny and Harry aren’t in a relationship, she’s still been his wife for twenty-two years and his companion throughout.  He hasn’t been _alone_ for thirty years, not since the Dursleys, and he’s not sure how he’s supposed to survive something like that.

Yes, he has his friends and all that, and he spends a fair bit of time in his London flat, but it’s still going to be jarring because of the newness of it, even though he logically knows that post-divorce life will be no different than the life he’s been living now.  Almost all of his friends are married with children, so they’ve lives of their own now, and he can’t just intrude all the time for that human connection.

Well.  At least he has Draco, though with as fit and brilliant as he is, he’ll probably end up snapping himself up a paramour of his own rather soon, if anyone has any sense.

And if Draco’s ready for that.

Harry pulls himself from his slightly hysterical thoughts and answers after a beat of hesitation, “Doubt it.  God knows that the two of them are enough for each other at the moment, judging by the noise they make when we’re sleeping in the same house for once.”

Draco gives him a smirk and opens his mouth to reply, but suddenly there’s a distant whistle and the sound of an approaching train, and Harry’s up and ready before Draco is able to continue.  He can feel his heart pounding in his throat, and he can’t stop tapping his fingers against his leg, _so_ ready to see his children and hold them in his arms once again.

When the train stops with a final plume of pale smoke and the doors open, it’s utter pandemonium.  Students stream off the train like the ocean against a cliff, crying out when they spot family and friends on the platform.  The noise is quite frankly ridiculous – multitudes of loud voices that’re either excited or exasperated, the squawk of owls, trunks being yanked and dragged and pushed onto trolleys, the crack of Apparition.  As much as Harry hates crowds, for obvious reasons, the platform at Nine and Three-Quarters is akin to a bone-deep joy now that he’s an adult.  The racket just signals that his family is together once more, and for a full nine weeks indeed.

He actually sees Scorpius first, as that pale hair is rather distinctive in a crowd (especially since it’s quite long now, probably past his shoulder blades if it wasn’t wrapped into a messy bun that’ll likely drive Draco up the wall).  Harry’s eyes flicker to the shorter figure behind him and naturally it’s Albus, looking a bit grumpy to be honest but no worse for wear.  Harry gives out a shout himself, lifting an arm and waving like a mental patient, his heart beating so fast that it’s almost painful.

Scorpius spots them and drags Albus in their direction, grinning widely as he tries to keep his trunk from hitting Albus in the legs.  Harry can see Albus huffing and rolling his eyes, the expression so similar to Harry’s own that it’s practically unnerving.  However, by the time they’ve both pushed their way through the crush of students and guardians, even Albus is smiling slightly, though keen green eyes are flickering back and forth between Harry and Draco as if he’s trying to sniff something out.

Whatever that means.  It’s not like Albus and Scorpius haven’t seen Harry and Draco together since the friendship kicked off, after all, so it’s a bit baffling to Harry.

He throws an arm around Albus, predictably getting a groan of annoyance at the public display of affection, and grins down at his son.  “Welcome home, Al!  I’ve missed you!” he exclaims happily, pleased when Albus simply sighs in resignation and finally returns the hug.  Harry’s not particularly bothered by the lack of excitement from his son – despite being a bit of an outcast at school, he’s still a teenager, and obviously embarrassed that his dad is getting mushy in front of all his peers.

Thankfully, James is less concerned about it, despite being seventeen; he simply appears out of nowhere, ruffles Albus’s hair fondly, and then throws his arms around Harry with a manly pat on the back, saying boisterously, “’ello there, Da!  Good to see you.”

Harry laughs, returning the salutation as they break apart, but he doesn’t have the chance to tease about how James is _finally_ taller than Harry is because Lily comes flying from the crowd and _jumps_ into his arms.  Harry stumbles a bit with a grunt, due to the surprise and the weight of a twelve-year-old, but eventually hugs her tightly as he steadies them both.  She gives him a smacking kiss on the cheek with a mischievous grin, then wiggles slightly until Harry lets her down.  She immediately darts away, throwing her arms around a friend and making promises for summer meet-ups.

Harry is then distracted by Scorpius, who nudges closer and hugs Harry round the middle in greeting.  He’s much softer in personality than Draco ever was, more likely to listen and support and comfort, more shy and studious.  Still, he’s pleased that he’s warranted a hug, as he’s incredibly fond of Scorpius.

So Harry returns it, grinning at the fifteen-year-old who’s almost as tall as he is and earning an equally bright grin in return.  “Hey Scorp, glad to have you back,” Harry greets, and Scorpius blushes from the tips of his ears all the way down to his feet, Harry reckons.  It’s endearing, and Harry laughs good-naturedly, draping an arm over his shoulder and pulling him in affectionately as he finally looks over at Draco.

And pauses.

Draco’s own cheeks are slightly pink and his grey eyes look a little wild as he looks between Harry and Scorpius, though he still seems outwardly composed, and Harry feels the grin on his face slip into a frown.  “You alright?” he asks, a bit worried but ultimately unconcerned.  Draco’s a bit of an odd creature on occasion, and sometimes Harry can’t for the life of him understand everything that goes on in that gorgeous head of his.

“I’m fine,” Draco says, his voice a bit breathy, before he clears his throat and adds in a stronger tone, “We’ll see you on Saturday then?”

Harry blinks, taken aback by the suddenness of their impending departure, then absently reaches out to snag his daughter before she can go trotting off to the other end of the station.  Ignoring her groan of dismay and the loud words of farewell that she bellows across the station to a friend, he replies, “Yeah, sounds brill.  Say hello to your mum for me, and Draco?  Good luck.  It’ll be fine.”

Draco exhales heavily and nods with a grimace, not quite meeting Harry’s eyes, then gestures for Scorpius without a word.

Harry doesn’t miss the glance that’s shared between all four of the children, though he hasn’t an idea what it’s for.


	5. A Beautiful Beginning

#### Five

_Saturday, 28 August 2021_

 

“Fucking hell!” Ron practically wails, almost bowled over by five rambunctious girls.

Harry rolls his eyes at his friend’s dramatics, because he knows that Ron’s more than used to being trampled over.  He’s a Weasley, after all, and Weasleys congregate in the dozens for every party.  God knows that he’s more than used to being surrounded by easily excitable children, since his childhood even.

Hermione echoes this statement after she’s done giggling at her husband’s expense: “Honestly, Ronald, you should be familiar enough with this by now.”

The three of them start following the girls, all of them with a dish in their arms.  Harry, being the steadiest on his feet, is carrying the truly massive strawberry cake that Rose had wanted for her birthday.  Looking at the thing, he’s amazed that Molly had enough time to even _make_ the gorgeous thing in time, considering she’s been cooking since the day before; he’s also curious as to whether there will be enough for everyone.  Sure, it’s big and all, but there are still a good twenty children at Ron and Hermione’s Oxfordshire home, and that’s not counting the children directly related to Rose.

Harry loves children, but _gods_.  It’s a veritable madhouse.

They finally get outside, where round tables covered in pale purple have been scattered around the garden.  One long table is groaning under the weight of the food on top of it, and Harry makes a mental note to reinforce it (again) with a stabilisation charm, just so it doesn’t break under the absurd amount of food on its top.

Rose is laughing madly in the middle of a circle of her friends, her bushy reddish-brown hair shining like a beacon.  Most of them are girls, though there are the few boys scattered about, and Lily has a place of honour by her cousin’s side despite the two-year difference between them.  All of them are dressed casually, robes forgotten in the sitting room, and Harry knows it’s because a fair few of them are going to see a film after they’ve digested their food.  Harry’s not good with films, honestly, but he has gathered from the excited chatter of the children (his own included) that it’s some superhero thing or another.  It’s apparently all the rage nowadays, though he doesn’t really get it himself.

Harry carefully places the cake in the centre of the table, then simultaneously casts the charm with Hermione, who’s apparently had the same idea.  They shoot amused looks at each other, before Hermione kisses both Ron and Harry on the cheek and then goes off to find Draco.  Harry can’t help but follow her with his eyes, watching as she smiles warmly at Draco and then sits down, both of them immediately falling into a deep discussion.  Probably politics, judging by the challenging grins on their faces.

Harry turns back to Ron.

“You aren’t taking _everyone_ to the film, are you?” he asks, glancing around for a quick headcount.  Sixteen friends of Rose, and then the relatives.  The only member of Rose’s family that isn’t here is Ted, because he hadn’t been able to get back to Britain in time for Rose’s birthday.  She had been understandably upset – despite being in a long-term relationship with Victoire Weasley, all the girls have a bit of a pash on Teddy Lupin.

“Of course not,” Ron replies with a laugh, pouring himself a glass of cold cranberry juice and taking a few gulps.  “Parents are picking up all but three, and then we have tickets for the rest of us.  We’ll be taking up half the damn cinema, but that’s what she wants so...”

Ginny flies by him, a quill sticking out of her chignon as if she’d forgotten to remove it when she had left the _Prophet_ offices, and Harry absently plucks it from her hair as she passes, replying, “I’m fairly certain that we’re not going to take up _half_ , Christ.  We’re a numerous bunch, but not quite to that level.”

Ron snorts.  “Yet.  Eventually Gin’s gonna pop out a few more kids with that wanker she’s with, and you might have a few more yourself if you shack up with a bird instead of a bloke.  Besides, all the girls are starting to get of an age – I’m fairly sure that Victoire is going to get up the duff soon with the way her and Ted are always going at it, and for fuck’s sake, Hugo and Lily’ll be of age before you kn—”

Harry interrupts hastily, “Don’t you _dare_ put that evil on us, Ron.  They’re fucking _twelve_.”

Ron guffaws at Harry’s horror, and while Harry knows that Ron’s taking the piss, it’s still disturbing.  As far as Harry’s concerned, his children can start having sex when they’re thirty.  Maybe forty.  Fifty if he’s lucky.  He’s already traumatised that Ted had apparently started at sixteen.

It’s funny how a few decades and kids of his own has completely changed his outlook on teenagers having sex.  He distinctly remembers Ginny (and himself, to be honest) being narked when Molly and Arthur had cockblocked them from having sex at every available opportunity, harping on them to get married first.

He drifts away after a quick two-fingered salute in Ron’s direction, taking stock of his children.  Lily, of course, is rather in her element, dominating conversations with her easy charm and carefree smiles, an eternal heartbreaker.  He knows without a doubt that she’s going to be a handful when she _does_ start dating, because she’s quite like her mother, and Ginny’s always been a firecracker.  All dramatics aside, he just hopes that she’s safe and makes good choices for herself, and he’s absolutely assured that he and Ginny have raised her to be confident and independent enough to not let anyone take advantage of her.  He would feel pity of the boys (or girls, he supposes) that get on her bad side, but they’ll deserve it and then some.

James is fucking about on his broomstick, surrounded by the more Quidditch-fanatical guests and laughing boisterously as he chats to them from his perch.  Harry had been terrified that James would be the stereotypical teenaged boy – all gloom and broodiness and girls and _I need to look cool Dad_ – or a bit too much like his namesakes – confident, but arrogant bullies, essentially, though it does make Harry’s heart sore to admit that.  However, James has always been uncommonly kind, humble, and easy going in temperament...though, of course, he’s still a Quidditch-obsessed prankster.  He’s a lot like Fred and George rather than his grandfather and Sirius: easy to amuse instead of always looking for trouble, generally optimistic and open-minded rather than seeing things in black and white, and more opt to partake in easy, safe pranks rather than the malicious ones conducted by the Marauders.  It’s an absolute relief, to be honest, because he’s not entirely sure how he would’ve handled the opposite.

He’s always been shit at discipline, and he has to blame the Dursleys for that.  They’ve made him a bit too soft when it comes to his children, and while Harry’s not a pushover, he _is_ admittedly too lax.

Ginny, being the youngest of seven and a total spitfire, has no such qualms.

Albus, on the other hand, is predictably under a willow tree with Scorpius, both of them talking quietly between themselves as they curl over a book.  Harry figures that Albus is the one that’ll end up all broody and aloof once he gets older, because he’s much too similar to Harry (without the impending doom, of course) when he’d been a teenager, but thankfully he’s not nearly as hot-headed.  It hadn’t exactly been surprising that he’d been sorted into Slytherin – much like Harry almost had been – but he’s flourished in the house of snakes regardless.  Sometimes it’s a bit alarming how easily Albus can wrap people around his finger with subtle manipulation, but mercifully he has Scorpius and a solid, inclusive, unprejudiced family to put things into perspective and round out the sharp edges.  If Harry himself had been sorted into Slytherin, cut off from the open-minded and kind Weasleys and the Muggle-born Hermione due to political climate and the long-held prejudice against Slytherin, there’s no telling how the war would’ve gone and what kind of man he would’ve grown up to be.

It’s a humbling, terrifying thought, the idea that sharing sweets with Ron on the train had altered his course so dramatically, but Harry likes to believe that he still would’ve turned out alright in the end.

He meanders his way towards his assigned table, comprised solely of adults, when Ron calls out that it’s time to eat.  He plops down in his chair beside Hermione with a lack of grace and a long sigh, already a bit worn out from it all.  He’s been up and at it since five this morning, putting in a full day at the Ministry before making his way to Ron and Hermione’s to help set up what remained to be done, and then afterwards running after kids and making nice with the few parents that had stayed.  It’s exhausting, and all he really wants to do is go home, have a glass of red, put on a record, and just relax.  Still though, it’s Rose’s birthday and he wouldn’t miss it for the world, though he’s vaguely concerned that he’s going to end up falling asleep in the theatre, drawing the ire of the children for missing out on ‘quality cinema’.

God, he’s getting old.

He waits until the kids (and Ron) have rushed the table before he makes his way to grab a plate himself, quietly grabbing some food to ease the rumbling of his stomach as he listens to the conversations around him.  Ginny nudges her hip against him playfully as they both follow the adults back to the table, both of them rather amused at the heated debate about the liberation of house-elves.  Hermione’s obviously rather passionate about the subject, always has been, but Blaise is having none of it, and it’s amusing to watch Hermione go rather pink in the face as he shrugs off her arguments.

“With the institution of unions, mandatory pay packets, and laws prohibiting mistreatment, there’s no reason why the elves can’t continue doing what they so clearly want to do, Hermione,” Blaise drawls, winking at Ginny and Harry as he tucks into his sausages.  Harry can’t help but snort into his steak and kidney pudding, wondering if Blaise is ever going to get tired of deliberately riling Hermione up.

“The only reason they _want_ to do it is because they don’t know another life!” Hermione exclaims, brandishing her fork at Blaise pointedly.  She stabs a roasted potato once she’s finished with her gesture with a bit too much force, and argues, “Unions are lovely in theory, but without immersion into other ways of living, they haven’t an idea what they’re missing!”

“They want to maintain an establishment, and to take that away from them is cruel and unusual punishment,” Blaise counters after he primly takes a sip of sparkling water, the ponce.  “You cannot force someone to do the complete opposite of their desires just because _you_ think it’s wrong.  You’ve already forced them to accept pay, which caused a small riot in their community if you don’t recall, and Salazar knows that the unions themselves are largely unneeded since not many elves utilise their functions.  The elves end up working on their days off, use their pay to buy food and cleaning supplies for the family that paid them, and refuse to leave their sworn families even under threat of death.  Do you honestly believe that forcing them to take up dancing or accounting is going to make them happy, dear Minister?”

Hermione scoffs.  “There have been unprecedented numbers of elves campaigning for more variability in their careers, and they _are_ utilising the union benefits!”

‘ _Likely under duress_ ,’ Malfoy mouths, leaning behind Hermione so he’s not caught.  Harry snickers, but doesn’t reply or interject in the conversation – both sides have good points, but Harry refuses to get in the middle of this particular issue if only to save himself from getting stabbed with a fork.  He loves Hermione dearly, but sometimes she is unapologetically idealistic, and isn’t afraid to shove it down people’s throats whether they want to hear it or not.  He might agree with her in theory, but it’ll take time and a _lot_ of research and treatment to study the magical contract that forces elves to serve their households and find a way to break said contract without driving the elves mad.  To set them all free at once would effectively destroy the elves, and so a steady, methodical approach is needed to break their subjugation.

And he knows that Hermione knows all this, but she’s a lawyer before a politician, and so she’s going to argue regardless of the topic at hand, so there’s no point in interjecting into their conversation.

He tunes her out to listen in on Neville, Hannah, Ron, and George, but the conversation (a joint venture for the shop that Neville refuses to take part in, if only because he doesn’t want to deal with the joke plants that will inevitably end up in his classroom) doesn’t really capture his attention.  He’s still involved, at least financially, with the shop, but he has no interest in the development and experimentation side of things; he’s always been pants at inventing things, sticking with the tried-and-true products while other people much smarter than he come up with something better.

Eventually though, he’s pleased when Draco finally throws up his arms and bodily moves Hermione from her seat into his, allowing Blaise and Hermione to argue without him in the middle of their gesturing.  Harry thinks that he’s smart for doing it, as Hermione tends to talk with her hands (and is armed with her fork), but it’s also mutually beneficial, since Draco can now have a conversation of his own, and Harry himself can actually talk to someone instead of listen in on conversations.

Draco uses his own fork to spear some of Hermione’s potatoes, eating them casually and without hesitation, before he says airily with a playful smirk, “Is it considered bad form to smother an infamous aristocrat and the Minister of Magic in their sleep?  I dare say that I could order one of the Manor elves to carry out the deed.”

Hermione, who’s in the middle of arguing something about elvish universities needing to be established, absently flicks two fingers behind her.

“Oh, let them be,” Harry says with a grin.  “They’re totally getting off on it.”  He dodges the bread roll that Ron chucks at his head and continues, “Has Scorpius talked to you about staying here for the night?  Albus and Rose have already made their appeals, and I figure you’ll be cornered as well, if you haven’t been already.”

Draco rolls his eyes, but there’s a fond quirk to his lips.  “He hasn’t accosted me yet, but I figured he’d ask.  I think he’s...quite fond of Rose.”

Harry snorts into his water.  “That’s putting it mildly.  Just think – you might be immediately related to the Weasleys for the first time in generations.  How does _that_ make you feel?”

Draco huffs, though without any real ire, and replies in a drawl, “As long as I remember that she’s half-Granger, it’s not nearly as horrifying.”

Harry _laughs_.

When he finally gets himself under some modicum of control, the laughter a mere snigger on occasion, he finally focusses on Draco’s face.  For the umpteenth time since that odd day at King’s Cross, Harry notes that Draco’s ears and cheekbones are dusted with the lightest pink flush and that his fingers are clenched around his glass of wine, though his expression is deliberately (and unconvincingly) even.  He can’t quite figure out why Draco’s suddenly so easily flustered around him, as it’s never been a problem before, but he shrugs it off with the familiar curl of intrigue.  Once Draco’s ready to address his sudden embarrassment, Harry’s curiosity will be abated and they’ll talk about it.

Almost fondly, Harry recalls his past obsessive qualities (usually centred around _Malfoy_ , back in those days).  It would’ve taken an act of God to keep him from investigating something ‘suspicious’ like this, and he knows it.  When he reminiscences about his school days, he’s always relieved that he’s grown out of that phase.

Mostly.

The rest of the early dinner goes by quickly, and soon enough Harry’s surrounded by excited children and amused adults, crowding around the centre table so they can complete the standard birthday tradition.  He’s pressed up against Ginny (who’s had to keep her distance from Blaise, if only to keep chins from wagging), not much room to move due to the forty or so bodies round the table and sweltering from the combination of body heat and the uncommonly hot late afternoon.  He can feel a trickle of sweat run down his spine, and he shivers slightly at the feeling; he’s happy he’s here, and excited for Rose, but _fuck_ he wishes they’d hurry it up before he dies of heat stroke.

He hears Lily chirp out a countdown, and Harry grins widely as he sings along, off-key and unapologetically loud.  Ron and George meet him loud verse-to-verse, the three of them practically bellowing the words, trying their damndest to embarrass the birthday girl at their old man corniness.  Or whatever.  Instead, Rose – and a good chunk of the other guests, to boot – laughs uproariously, chocolate brown eyes practically watering from the force of it.

Harry manages to catch Draco’s eye, and his grin widens into something almost painful at the expression on Draco’s face.  It’s a mix between horror, surprise, and a wild hilarity, and it’s weirdly a great look for him, in Harry’s opinion.  Draco’s a fit bloke, for sure, but when he’s out of his shell and lets his inner thoughts and-or emotions out to settle on his face, he’s absolutely stunning.  For the thousandth time since they’ve become friends (and, admittedly, since Harry had allowed himself to accept the fact that Draco was gorgeous when he’d been about nineteen), he feels the familiar curl of heat in his prick, causing it to twitch with interest in its confines.  He doesn’t allow it to show on his face, continuing his boisterous singing, and the only evidence to the flicker of arousal he feels is his clenched fists at his side, which is easily lost in the crush of people.

Still, as the three of them drag out the last note as long and loud as they can, Harry winks at Draco mischievously.

Draco’s eyes widen, and surprisingly, he darts his eyes away so quickly that Harry vaguely wonders if he pulled a muscle.  And, if Harry’s not mistaken, he’s _flushed_ again.

Harry blinks, wonders if he should accept the most logical conclusion and blame it on the heat, and then blinks again.  Because _surely_ not...

He’s pulled out of the beginnings of a bewildering, heart-stopping _What If?_ as he’s dragged by Ginny towards the birthday girl.  He barely registers that he joins in on the huge, Weasley group hug, crushing the poor Rose in the midst of a brood of family members, and doesn’t remember how he gets to his table with a truly staggering amount of strawberry birthday cake and ice cream on a plate.  He doesn’t see the odd glances he receives from his family, children and adults alike, because he’s lost in a whirlwind of thoughts that _can’t_ be true, because Harry can’t be _that_ thick, can he?

Draco Malfoy is one of his best friends, and he’s fit as fuck, but Harry never really considered it.  For a multitude of reasons – namely Astoria in the beginning, and then out of internal politeness after Draco had admitted he was bent but gave no indication of any sexual appreciation for Harry himself – he’s never really even _thought_ about it.

But now, even surrounded by a mass of children, he can’t help but think about the possibilities.

They mesh well together, no doubt.  Draco fills in bits and pieces of Harry that have been ignored for his entire life, and Harry suspects that it’s mutual.  They can faff about doing nothing but paperwork or letters, sitting in the same room for hours in a comfortable, shared silence.  Draco’s more conservative to balance out Harry’s liberalism, but they nevertheless tend to share the same ideals over the big things.  They snark and bitch and complain and moan to each other on a practically-constant basis, and Harry’s always thought that it was reminiscent of foreplay.  Draco doesn’t let Harry get away with any of his bullshit, and Harry always knocks Draco down a few pegs when Draco gets too uppity.  At the same time, Harry laughs and laughs and _laughs_ when they’re together, cheeks aching from the strain and his chest burning from the lack of oxygen.

Not to mention that they’re two sides of the same coin.  They’ve both experienced things in their young lives that most couldn’t even contemplate, but they’ve shouldered on through sheer bullheadedness.  They both examined themselves in the years after the war, coming to their own version of peace with the horrors of their pasts and accepting the terrible but necessary things they had done to save the people they loved.  They had been so different in that regard – opposite sides of the conflict but coming to a consensus on the same end despite that – but so similar at the same time, and because of that, Draco Malfoy is one of the only people that can recognise the suffering and pain Harry feels even to the very day and feel a familiar, understanding _awareness_ with it.

And that’s not even bringing the children into it.

Harry stands up after finishing his cake and glances around, eyes clearing for the first time in what feels like years.  He sees Lily off to the side, laughing brightly with Rose.  Lily adores Draco, is always grinning at him, letting him braid her hair while she picks his brain about whatever exotic things he’s seen in his life that she dearly wants to experience.  James finds Draco hilarious as Draco always takes his harmless teasing and pranks with a cool stride, and is always bantering with him about Quidditch and Transfiguration, their conversations light and mutually engaging.  And fuck, but Albus _loves_ Draco, has always seen Draco as something akin to a second father, and has integrated himself amongst the Malfoy family with ease and comfort.

Even now, Albus (and Scorpius, brothers in all but blood) is hanging off Draco’s arm, gesturing wildly with a hopeful, adoring expression on his face as he tries to ensure Scorpius’s own night with the Weasleys, Harry presumes.  Draco just curls his shapely lips in that way he does when he permits his shields to drop around the children, all soft and affectionate, and seeing that expression on Draco’s face directed at Harry’s son...it takes his fucking breath away.

“Knut for your thoughts?” he hears Hermione murmur at his side.

Without even thinking, he says, “Christ, I think I’m in love with Draco Malfoy.”  It feels like his heart is pounding in his throat, and he can feel his hands shaking against his sides, but it’s elating (albeit rather terrifying as well) and he can’t stop the stupid, goofy smile from popping onto his own lips as he watches Draco brush a lock of Scorpius’s long hair behind his ear, indulging the two boys with a faint smile.

Hermione wraps an arm around his and leans against him with a small sigh.  “Frankly, I’m relieved,” she says quietly in reply, her head on his shoulder and coarse, bushy hair tickling the skin of his throat.  “You two are so alike in many ways, and you’re good for each other.”

Harry inhales, smelling the fuchsia in her hair and the freshly mown grass, and then exhales heavily.  “My children adore him, and he’s so good with them.  Ginny likes him, and Blaise is his best friend.  You’ve been engaged in an intellectual love affair with him for two decades, and even Ron sort of gets on with him.  He’s...he’s been right there, right under my nose, and I just didn’t see it until now.  _God_ , I’m thick sometimes.”

Hermione laughs under her breath and replies, “You do tend to ignore the obvious, though you’ve gotten better with age.”

“Tell me I’m mad,” Harry hears himself plead, but it sounds more resigned than anything because he _wants_ this.  Fuck does he want this.  “Tell me I’ve lost the plot; tell me I’m insane for wanting this, that Draco could ever...”

She snorts, pulls away, and then turns him around to face her, her hands grasping his upper arms in a firm grip.  Her brown eyes are wide and earnest, though there’s a glow in them that lifts his heart even further up his throat, and she says, “Harry, don’t be foolish.  You didn’t hear this from me, but I’ve already heard all this from Draco back in late June, in this very garden.  Mind, it was at four in the morning, and Ron was quite cross when I left bed, but nevertheless, I’ve already had this conversation once, and I don’t think I need to have it again.”  Her hands squeeze lightly, and she finishes with a beaming smile, “You have _nothing_ to worry about, Harry.  He’s been waiting for you for months, if not longer.”

Then the smile turns impish and her eyes glitter with delight as she adds teasingly, “We’ll make your excuses with the kids.”

Harry simply buries his face in his hands, not sure if he wants to start laughing hysterically or cry (because the prickling in the back of his eyes is quite alarming, and he seriously does not need that right now).

“Everything alright over here?” he hears Ron ask from somewhere ahead of them both, his tone breathless with exertion after the madhouse of shuffling guests through the Floo.

“It’s fine.  Harry’s just had a bit of epiphany,” Hermione replies airily.

“Oh,” Ron says, then pauses.  After a second, he tacks on, “What, did he figure it out?”

Harry raises his head with a bemused expression, distractedly taking in the faces of Ron, Ginny, and Blaise, but ultimately keeping his mouth shut as Hermione just laughs and nods.

Though that doesn’t last for long.  Blaise huffs out an exasperated laugh and drawls, “Fucking _finally_.  I’ve been sick of watching you blithering idiots dance around each other.  It’s frankly nauseating, and I’ve been debating the merits of just locking the two of you in a broom closet in just your skin.”

The group around him bursts out laughing.

He sees Draco and the boys glance over in their direction, and Harry’s utterly mortified when they start heading their direction, Draco’s grey eyes curious and sharp as he takes in the commotion.  Harry figures that his face is flaming, but he can’t bear the thought of hiding behind his hands because he wants to watch that tall form glide towards him, all self-confidence, elegance, and simple grace.  God, but Draco’s gorgeous, and Harry can’t help but reach one hand out to grab his sharp shoulder when he’s close enough, whinging with only a little bit of breathiness, “Save me from these fiends.  They’re horrid.”

“Oh, you love us,” Hermione giggles.

The boys glance around the faces and then roll their eyes in sync.  “C’mon, Stop torturing Dad for whatever reason.  We’ve a film to go see,” Albus says, unamused judging by the tone.  At least Albus is predictable.  Almost as if the girls had been listening in, there’s a yell from the other children for them to ‘ _hurry up or we’ll be late!_ ’ and it seems to get everyone in motion.

As the progression moves towards the house, most of the kids jumping around with excitement, Draco falls into step beside Harry.  “You seem shaken,” he says, eyes flickering around Harry’s face, and Harry can _see_ it now, the spark of affection that seems completely different from what Harry’s grown familiar with, as well as the attraction.  It’s in every line of his face – the softness of his eyes, the slightly open lips when he eyes Harry’s own, the long blinks, the almost non-existent pinkness of his cheekbones and ears.  He’s been utterly blind, Harry realises, and he can’t believe that the person he can see himself waking up next to for the next hundred years has been right in front of him the entire time.

Harry tears his eyes away, not answering the question in lieu of watching the commotion of eighteen children and eight adults make their exuberant way to the Muggle SUVs in the garage and in front of the house.  Harry and Draco follow along, the only quiet people in the progression, and then he summons his Gryffindor courage and calls out, “Oi, I have a few things that I have to speak to Draco about, so I’m going to stay in.  Mind the adults, if you please, and for Merlin’s sake, don’t cause an international incident.”

He ignores Draco’s quizzical look and focusses on Scorpius, who’s frowning heavily.  “You’re not coming with?” Scorpius asks, visibly upset, and the surge of affection Harry feels for the boy is heady in his chest.

“Sorry, Scorp, but I’m going to opt out.  I’ll see you in the morning when I pick you up, alright?”

He doesn’t look happy, but Albus just huffs and drags him into the Lincoln.  Harry waves at everyone as they pile into the cars, avoiding the few lecherous grins he’s receiving, and only when the kids are out of sight (but surely still watching) does he flip two fingers at the cackling Blaise before he and Ginny Apparate separately to Blaise’s Westminster townhouse.

When the merry bunch finally disappears down the road, the sound of humming engines gradually disappearing into the quiet evening of Devon, he finally turns to Draco.  The dying light of the setting sun softens those sharp features, and Harry questions quietly, “Cup of wine at the Camden flat?”

Draco stares at him for a long moment, searching, before he nods once and they Apparate away.

 

—

 

Harry arrives at his flat a split second before Draco, so he makes his way towards the wine cooler.

They’re both quiet as Harry picks out a _sauternes_ , one of the cheaper but no less delicious picks from _Guiraud_.  He needs the rich liquid courage for this conversation, and it’ll give him something to do with his hands; at the same time, he knows that Draco will appreciate the French selection, though he tends to prefer the dryer, more chalky wines from the coasts and islands.  He shows the bottle to Draco, who nods, and so Harry pops the cork and serves them both, not needing to decant the rich white.  Then, with a quick glance at each other, Harry leads the two of them to the sitting room, waiting for Draco to sit primly in his favourite armchair before he makes the decision to sit at a respectable distance.  He doesn’t want to instinctively reach out and touch, as he’s wont to do with people regardless of situation, because it’ll be too much of a titillating distraction otherwise.

Draco eyes him, the grey orbs narrowed in curiosity and wariness, so Harry simply goes for it with his usual aplomb: “My children adore you.”  Draco’s eyes widen slightly, the wariness all but disappearing at the clearly unexpected start, but Harry just evenly continues, “James and Lily both have always appreciated cleverness and adventure, so they’re quite fond of you.  Plus you’re the only one besides Gin that’ll braid Lily’s hair, so that tickles her to death.  As for Albus, well, it’s obvious that he skips right past adoring you into love – he thinks of you as a second father, honestly, and I can see why.  You’re brilliant with him, indulging him when he needs to be indulged, complimenting him when he needs to be complimented, and nipping any rule breaking or other issues in the bud before they can get him into trouble or send him down the wrong path.”

Harry sighs, taking a conservative sip of his wine and letting the subtle hint of honey roll across his tongue, before he continues, “And then there’s everyone else.  Gin is more than friendly with you, and Blaise is your best friend.  You’ve been attached at the hip to Hermione since you both went to your law academy together twenty years ago.  Ron even gets on with you in his own way, which I would’ve never imagined back in school.  In fact, the Weasley family as a whole haven’t a problem with you, though I’m sure you’ll never be as chummy with them as you are with me and Gin and Hermione.”

Harry takes a deep breath, trying to get this all out despite wanting to address the realisation that he can see blooming in Draco’s eyes, and says, “You’re one of my best friends.  Everything about you just _fits_.  You understand me on a fundamental level, and while we chafe each other in a lot of ways, and we bitch back and forth in a way that most people wouldn’t find healthy, you’re like the missing piece.”  Harry lets his lips quirk in a smile, almost shy, and adds, “Doesn’t hurt that you’re incredibly fit.  Always have been really, though I didn’t allow myself to acknowledge it until I was nineteen, for obvious reasons.”

Harry fiddles with the stem of his glass and says, “So, I guess what I’m trying to say is that I quite fancy you, and I’d like to take you to dinner if you’ll have me.  Not tonight, obviously, as I’m still rather stuffed, but...well, soon.”

At the end of his spiel, he just watches Draco process.  He’s still sitting with that same impeccable posture, one hand holding the untouched glass of wine while the other is lightly resting against the armrest.  Most anyone else would see only the impassive, almost calm countenance of the posh Malfoy patriarch, but Harry’s too close to him now to miss the little flickers of emotion that show in his eyes and expressions.  It’s rather hard to pin down any of them, so Harry simply holds his breath, waiting for the final verdict.  It’s really up to Draco here, obviously, and even though Hermione is under the impression that Harry hasn’t a thing to worry about, he’s still inevitably nervous.

After all, he’s seen a lot of friendships break apart due to unrequited feelings, and he does not want that to happen between him and Draco.  Until ( _if_ ) Draco accepts his invitation, he’ll be a bundle of nerves regardless of Hermione’s words, because even despite the relatively short period of time they’ve been friends (in contrast to the long history of bitter rivals and then polite cordialness) he still doesn’t want to lose this friendship.

To Harry’s surprise – with a small sprinkling of horror for garnish, if he’s honest – Draco rather suddenly stands up, placing his wine on the side table untouched and an unfamiliar expression on his features.  Harry stares up at him, wondering if he’s ruined positively everything because Harry can’t place the emotion on his face, but then Draco says in a remarkably smooth tone, “Bed first; dinner later.”

Harry’s heart thuds heavily in his chest, mouth falling open in a likely unflattering show of shock because _what in the hell_ , and he feels like time has stopped.  After a long moment of just gaping at Draco, who’s looking remarkably confident but has a surprising amount of nervousness in those eyes of his, Harry asks, “Are you sure?”

Draco rolls his eyes with a huff, the tips of his ears pink, and snarks back, “Obviously, you idiot.  I wouldn’t have said it otherwise.”

Well.  Okay then.

Harry stands up himself, placing his own wine glass on the coffee table, and then advances on Draco, heart pounding and his breathing already a tad choppy.  He can feel his hands shaking but it doesn’t stop him from reaching up, cupping Draco’s face and brushing his thumbs along the sharp juts of his cheekbones, eyes flicking back and forth between Draco’s eyes for any hint of unease or wariness.  He only sees anticipation and amusement though, and Harry’s heart flutters with affection.

“Anything you’re not comfortable with?” he asks quietly, needing to get that out of the way before anything happens.  Draco hasn’t talked about that one bloke he took home (Harry can’t remember his name off the top of his head) back in March, and as far as Harry’s aware, Draco’s been celibate since then, so he’s not sure what Draco’s comfortable with.  After all, Draco’s whole realisation of his queerness is fairly new, and Harry will be damned if he oversteps based off his more considerable experience.

“I’ll tell you,” Draco murmurs, hands reaching up to touch Harry’s wrists, the softness of it contrasting to the intensity of his eyes, the deep pool of his anticipation.  His pupils are dilated, half from the rapidly fading light coming through the windows and half from the beginnings of arousal that Harry can see on his face, and he can feel Draco’s breath against his nose.

Harry smiles, nods once, and then slowly tilts his head up, letting his mouth brush against Draco’s own.  It’s a bare touch, just testing the waters a bit to see if this is okay, but Draco lets out a long, lingering exhale through his nose, hands tightening against Harry’s wrists as he steps close enough for their bodies to press flush against each other, and Harry figures that Draco’s totally fine with this, at least.

Harry lets his hands wander to the back of Draco’s hair, digging his fingers into the soft, short blond hair at the back of his scalp as he kisses him with a bit more pressure.  Draco lets go of Harry’s wrists, opting instead to place his palms on Harry’s chest as if he’s feeling his chest move or his heart beat, and responds in kind.  It’s a quiet moment, both of them just exploring this new thing between them as if they’ve got plenty of time to discover each other – which, Harry figures, isn’t too far from the truth.  He quite likes this, just simple, rather tame snogging in the middle of his cosy, familiar Camden flat, full of mutual hope and excitement for the future.  It isn’t like Harry’s _not_ aroused by it, of course, but it’s fair to say that while his blood feels heated and his skin is covered in gooseflesh, he’s not really...well, out of his mind with it.

That is, until they open their mouths in simultaneous cohesion, and their tongues touch.

The only warning Harry gets is a sharp inhale and the delicious bite of short, groomed fingernails digging through the thin fabric of his shirt before Draco surges forward, like the dam’s broken and he can’t really stop the instinctive urge for more.  Harry finds himself being pushed back, suddenly being kissed within an inch of his life – and _fuck_ Draco knows what he’s doing with that mouth of his – as his back hits the wall separating the sitting room from the kitchen.  Now Harry feels too hot in his skin, that tongue doing wicked things in his mouth and those glorious, elegant fingers edging down to the hem of his shirt, lightly sweeping under it to touch the warm skin of Harry’s stomach.

He doesn’t even get the opportunity to respond in kind, because they separate for breath and Draco nuzzles down into Harry’s neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses intermixed with the drag of his teeth against his skin, and all Harry can do is _feel_ , breath coming out in harsh gasps and his fingers clutching mindlessly in Draco’s hair to keep him in place.  He can feel his hips aimlessly pushing into Draco’s thigh, which is nestled in between Harry’s legs, and his prick is steadily growing against the expanse of lean muscle, increasingly achy and becoming steadily confined in its denim and cotton trappings.

And Draco himself is letting out near-constant sounds, something between a groan and a whimper, low and rough and enough to send a solid rush of arousal to the heavy heat between Harry’s thighs.  Harry can feel Draco’s own prick growing more rigid against Harry’s hip, and it’s intoxicating, this rush of almost easy passion between them, comfortable and _right_.  He suddenly can’t take the separation anymore and he pulls Draco’s face up, pushing their mouths together in a heated, intense glide of tongues and teeth as he forces his hands away from Draco’s hair, letting them trail down the bumps of Draco’s spine.  When he reaches the bottom hem, he brings his hands to the sharp bones of Draco’s hips through his trousers, caressing them with his thumbs before he attacks the buttons of his shirt.  It makes Draco exhale shakily, and then they’re mutually trying to take off each other’s shirts, Draco having a much easier time with it considering Harry avoids buttons like the plague.

He disconnects for a moment so the apparently offending fabric can be pulled over his head, and then he returns to the buttons, eventually managing to unclasp all of them.  He’s too impatient to yank it off him though, opting instead to just wrap his arms around Draco’s middle and pull them flush together, the warmth of their bare skin delicious and soothing all at once.  He tears his mouth away to finally return the favour, dragging his lips against the smooth skin on Draco’s throat and tasting salt and _man_ , and gods he’s needs Draco on a bed _right-fucking-now_.

He pushes, Draco stumbling a bit from the suddenness but thankfully keeping his balance thanks to his own natural grace as well as Harry’s hands on his ribs, and Harry gets out in a rough whisper, “Bedroom, _now_.”

“Yes,” Draco gasps, stepping back and letting himself be slowly stalked through the flat, the frantic rush from only moments before softened into a rolling boil.  Draco’s familiar enough with the layout of the place that he deftly avoids all obstacles as he walks backwards through the hallway, their eyes locked and heated but not touching.  He shrugs off his shirt with a delicate shrug of his shoulders as he walks, baring his chest for Harry’s eyes, and Harry takes in the long torso with the faintest criss-crossing scars from that long-ago Sectumsempra and a sparse few other Dark curses that couldn’t be healed through normal means.

The sight of his own personal violence echoes hollowly in Harry’s chest, but he knows that Draco’s at peace with it – they had been young and stupid and on opposite sides of a brutal war, and they’ve come to terms with the viciousness of their past transgressions, both with time as well as a stilted discussion (while sloshed, to be fair).

There’s no real hair to speak of on Draco’s chest, at least none that he can see, which is a stark contrast with the dusting of hair that Harry’s own body carries.  He’s lean and sharp, all bones and ribs overlaid with the wiry musculature of a naturally thin man with a desk job who regularly exercises and eats well to mitigate the potential weight gain (though Harry’s would like to see an extra stone on him, if he’s honest, and fuck he sounds like Molly).  His trousers rest properly at his waist, hiding his hipbones from sight, and his skin contrasts greatly against the deep charcoal fabric, looking even more vibrant in the dusky light as they unhurriedly make their way towards Harry’s bedroom.

When they reach the closed doorway, Draco reaches a hand behind him to blindly turn the knob but Harry doesn’t give him the chance to follow through, pressing close and connecting their mouths, tongues dancing and hands roaming over warm skin.  Draco’s fingernails scratch at Harry’s sparse chest hair with a pleasant sound, eventually moving lower to the thicker trail of hair that starts below his navel and disappears underneath his trousers, eventually hooking his fingers into the waistband and letting his thumbs brush the fabric-covered skin above his aching prick.  Harry lets his own hands stall at the small of Draco’s back, fingers bypassing his trousers and pants so he can just feel the beginning of the cleft of his arse and the smooth skin around it.  They press their foreheads together, taking a moment to centre themselves, and then Harry decides that’s long enough.

He reluctantly pulls a hand away so he can open the door, holding Draco steady when the solid wood at his back suddenly gives way, and then he kisses Draco, walking them both in unison towards the large bed, in no hurry to rush things.  He senses more than sees when they’re close, and he lets Draco’s lower lip fall from his teeth – Draco groans in the back of his throat – and says hoarsely, “Down.”

Harry feels Draco shudder, his head falling to Harry’s shoulder for a moment, before he slowly pulls away, eyes bright and penetrating as he sits at the edge of the bed.  Harry reaches to grasp his shoulders, all so he can push Draco to the bed (he’s quite anxious to see what Draco looks like against his sheets), but then he’s distracted by nimble fingers quickly unbuttoning his trousers and pulling down the flies with a low _zip_ , Draco’s warm mouth pressing open-mouthed kisses to the skin just above the upper line of his pants.

“Fuck,” he breathes, hands falling instead to Draco’s hair, content to let Draco do what he will at the pace he’s comfortable with.  Draco’s mouth is intoxicating, wet and heated and not leaving a square centimetre of skin untouched by his lips and tongue.  He can feel Draco’s hands pulling down his unbuttoned trousers slowly, his mouth following the movement, and Harry’s prick is pressing against Draco’s jaw line, the pressure light and maddening.  He resists the urge to push against him, simply letting Draco do his worst, and scratches his fingernails on Draco’s scalp, letting out hums and sighs to vocalise his approval.

The trousers are pushed down over his hips and lose the battle against gravity, falling down his legs with a quiet sound, and Draco pulls away slightly to look.  Harry’s only in his pants now, the black fabric skin tight against his thighs and hips, but he doesn’t feel embarrassed about being on display like this.  He knows that he has nothing to be ashamed of, physically at least, and besides, he’s much too intrigued by Draco’s hands and fingers.  His skin is so pale against Harry’s darker colouring, deep caramel against pale ivory, standing out in stark contrast as his fingertips explore.  Draco traces the waistband of Harry’s pants, the protrusions of his hipbones, his strong thighs, the line of hair that leads to his hidden prick, everywhere except the half-hard bulge that is steadily growing as Draco studies him.

Draco eyes Harry’s prick, face flushed, and then his grey eyes look up, pupils blown out and slightly glassy with arousal.  Harry smiles, amused despite the situation, and then watches as Draco looks back down and begins edging his pants down, fingernails lightly scratching his hips and thighs as he removes them completely.

He steps out of the discarded pants once they’ve fallen to the floor and then toes off his socks, kicking the fabric away with a foot.  It takes only a second or two, and then he’s returning to his place in front of Draco, close enough for Draco to touch if he wants.  Draco’s gaze on his naked body is like an aphrodisiac, and he so dearly wants to strip Draco in kind, but instead he just stays still, attempting to regulate his breathing as Draco looks his fill.

He hasn’t been ashamed of his body since Auror training, when his skinny frame had finally filled out with hard-earnt muscles, so he’s completely at ease under the scrutiny.  He’s not perfect – he has scars and isn’t clean shaven like male models and has the occasional dry patch of skin – but he’s aware that he’s a physically attractive bloke to some people.  It seems as if Draco’s one of that number too, considering the fiery grey eyes that drink him in like an elixir, the orbs dancing around Harry’s angles and bones before they focus intently on his prick.

Then Draco explores. His fingertips trail over every inch of skin, mapping out Harry’s lower body like he’s memorising it by the feel of his flesh, and after a long moment, his mouth follows, not tentative but instead gentle and confident.  Harry supposed that, if he disregards his prick, Draco’s quite familiar with mapping out a body, so it makes sense that he’s at ease with the situation.

Then Draco touches him, right where he’s most desperate, and Harry lets out a long, relieved groan.

Draco brushes his fingers down the entire length of him, circling his foreskin and tracing every vein all the way to root of Harry’s prick, where he proceeds to venture further down to map out his balls, his taint, and even the cleft of his arse until he brushes his index finger over his hole.  Harry twitches at the last bit, head falling back as he gasps for air, and fuck the light touch is maddening, so much sensation but not enough relief.  His prick is positively aching now, so very-very close to Draco’s mouth, and he wants to caress Draco’s jaw, coaxing it to open so he can feel what it feels like to have those swollen lips around him.

He doesn’t though. Instead, he finally moves his hands from his sides, stroking the warm, bare skin of Draco’s shoulders before gently pushing him down.  Draco obliges, falling to the charcoal sheets with a shaky exhale of air, and Harry takes a long moment to appreciate the view of a pale, long-limbed, half-naked man stretched languidly against dark Egyptian cotton.

He leans down then, hands massaging hidden thighs and hips before they reach Draco’s belt, and he asks quietly, “Can I?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Draco groans in exasperation, and then slaps Harry’s hands away so he can undo it himself with shaking fingers.

Harry takes that as a yes.

Harry leans down even further, arching his back just enough so their hands can work on Draco’s trousers and pants in fumbling tandem, but he still nudges close enough to press a few open-mouthed kisses to the salty skin of Draco’s neck, his nose brushing against the smooth, angular jut of his jawbone.  Then he tears himself away so he can help Draco remove his trousers once the clasps and flies are undone, snagging his socks with a finger on each side to get them off as well.  Draco sits up and pulls his knees to his chest once Harry’s finished, if only to tear off his pants and toss them to the side, forgotten.

Harry doesn’t get much time to appreciate the view – long, bare legs with a dusting of platinum blond hair, sharp hipbones, the neatly trimmed patch of hair above a gorgeous, flushed prick that’s just as long and lean as the rest of him – before Draco pulls him down, hands buried in Harry’s wild hair.  Harry goes with it, slowly lowering himself down with his arms so he doesn’t abruptly put all his weight onto Draco; Draco himself spreads his legs so Harry can nestle in between them with a soft sigh against Harry’s lips.

It’s electric, feeling his prick touch Draco’s own, and he pushes into it, swallowing Draco’s long moan with a kiss.  They rock against each other languidly, one of Draco’s long legs wrapping around Harry’s waist, and even though Harry can’t do much with his hands since he’s holding his body weight up, he loves the intimacy of it, the feeling of Draco’s entire body flush against Harry’s own as their tongues dance.

Harry pulls away somewhat reluctantly from Draco’s mouth and begins lavishing the same attention to Draco’s body that Draco himself had given Harry before.  He traces the skin and taut cords of Draco’s neck with his tongue and lips, occasionally letting his teeth drag, then moves lower to Draco’s collar bones, shoulders, pectorals, and sternum.  His hands wander as he tastes and bites, tracing every angle and line of the man below him, relishing in the twitches of muscles and warm skin.  He can smell Draco like a punch to the gut, heat and sweat and the barest hint of cologne, feel Draco’s heaving chest against his lips and the drag of Draco’s slick prick against his stomach.  Every touch and taste is coordinated and processed as well as he can manage with the haze of arousal, and though he’ll need time to commit it to memory, Harry doesn’t figure he’s doing a mediocre job considering Draco is making the most lewd vocalisations while his entire body arches and shivers.

He finally pushes himself back up and presses the length of his body against Draco’s, pressing their mouths together as he wraps a hand around both their pricks as best he can.  He’s already so wound up, so close to the edge, that the touch is agonising, and he pulls them both in a slightly disjointed but ultimately steady rhythm.  Draco moans, a long sound that Harry can feel against his chest and lips, and they push into each other with abandon, the movements uncoordinated and sloppy.

“I’m—” Draco pants, his fingernails digging into the muscles of Harry’s lower back, and Harry groans in relief, speeding up his hand and pushing his tongue into Draco’s mouth without finesse, every atom in his body tensing in preparation.

“Do it,” Harry rasps in between heavy breaths and toe-curling kisses, and Draco does with a high gasp, his body arching as he releases wetly between them.  Harry pulls his face away and pulls twice more before he bites down on Draco’s left trapezius muscle, his balls aching as he spills even more come into the mess on their stomachs.

He collapses when his strength gives out, just barely succeeding in falling to Draco’s side so the full weight of his body doesn’t land directly on Draco, and then breathes as he waits for his heart to slow.  He presses soft, sporadic kisses on every bit of skin he can reach, tasting salt on his lips when he licks them, and Draco lifts a shaky hand so he can weave his thin fingers into Harry’s mess of hair.  Eventually Harry just presses his forehead against a sharp shoulder, running his fingers up and down Draco’s arm until Harry can feel the gooseflesh on his skin, soothed by Draco’s own fingers lightly stroking his scalp.

They’re quiet for a long time, allowing their bodies to cool down.  Harry can hear Draco inhaling and exhaling at Harry’s own rhythm, and it’s calming, having this soft moment after such an electric, easy first time.  Then he asks in a low timbre, eyes closed but not even remotely tired, “So...dinner tomorrow?”

Draco huffs out a laugh, manoeuvres himself to where he’s half draped over Harry’s naked form, and then kisses him languidly.  Harry can still feel Draco’s small smile against his own lips, and Harry’s breath leaves him in a rush, because _this is actually happening_ and _fuck_ is it a beautiful beginning.

“Yes,” Draco whispers against Harry’s lips, and it feels like a future promise.


	6. A Series of Moments

#### Six

_Sunday, 12 September 2021_

 

Harry’s not sure what wakes him up, the sound of Draco groaning in misery or his own mutual suffering.

“Fuck _me_ ,” Harry croaks, when he registers the pain of bad adult choices.  While their group hasn’t gone out in ages for obvious reasons – Padma’s taking it slow with a woman she’d met at a fundraiser a few months back, Charlie’s taking it _fast_ by moving into his new boyfriend’s flat within the first two weeks of dating, Blaise and Ginny are practically an old married couple and insufferable to be around, and Harry and Draco themselves are somewhere in the clouds of a new relationship – it had been Blaise’s birthday, so he had chosen how he wanted the festivities to go.

Which, obviously, meant getting absolutely Olivered.

At least the pillock is predictable, but for fuck’s sake, forty-one is a bit old to faff about with ridiculous amounts of alcohol, and Harry resolves to throw Blaise out by his ankles the next time he proposes going out.  He’s too old for this shit.  Hell, they’re _all_ too old for this shit.  Even Ginny’s finally in her forties with the rest of them, and she’s going to have to take it easy if she’s planning to have a few more little ones in the near future.  Maybe she’ll be the one that puts her foot down, and Harry’d thank her for it.  Profusely.

“Fuck _yourself_ ,” Draco snaps, his tone muffled by his pillow and lacking any real ire.  He’s face-down in the bedding and is practically oozing misery from his pores.  Not that Harry’s not roughly in the same boat.  “I’m going to down a hangover potion and a litre of mimosas and then sleep for another sixty years, so _if_ you don’t mind, shut the ever-loving-fuck _up_.”

Harry wants to laugh but refrains in consideration of his aching head, opting instead for an amused smirk (despite the fact that even that makes his head hurt) before he questions teasingly, “So should I call an elf and get yelled at for talking, or should I get out of bed to get it mys—”

Harry doesn’t get to finish, because Draco pushes himself up so he can wrap around Harry’s body like an octopus, face buried in Harry’s neck.

Harry sighs and calls for an elf.

Once they’re dosed appropriately – it’s an utter pain getting Draco off of him for long enough to drink the potion, even despite the fact that it’ll help, and he utterly refuses to allow Draco more alcohol – they fall back into a doze.  Fleeting images dance behind his eyelids, his kids and his wedding day and that first moment of flying, and he feels calm and content as he drifts, Draco in his arms while the headache and nausea recedes.

When he wakes up the next time, he feels remarkably better, but his bladder’s full to bloody bursting and so he manoeuvres his way out of Draco’s hold as gently as he can, snagging his glasses from the bedside table once he’s free.  Draco just mumbles a bit and wraps his arms around Harry’s pillow instead, burying his face into it with a sleepy sigh, and Harry can’t help but feel that newly familiar punch to the gut as he looks down at Draco.  It’s still staggering that Draco’s here, in his bed, in his _life_ , and sometimes he just needs to take a deep breath and remind himself that it’s real and not some sort of brilliant dream.

They’re still in their honeymoon phase, as Hermione likes to call it: they’re riding the high of the newness of it, on their best behaviour when they’re not having a frankly _obscene_ amount of sex, and because of that, everyday life hasn’t really intruded on the bubble of happiness and excitement yet.  Despite the fact that Harry’s fully aware that there are some sharp edges to Draco’s personality, the heady exhilaration has dulled them for the time being; he’s so utterly in love that there is almost nothing Draco could do that would irritate him or dampen his mood.

Since Draco hasn’t gone off on Harry during his more irritating moments either, Harry figures that the honeymoon phase is mutually acknowledged on both sides.

Eventually it’ll diminish from the frantic, heightened emotionality of a new relationship into something familiar, comfortable, and honest.  Harry knows it won’t be perfect, because no relationship is perfect, but he’s still fairly confident that Draco’s the person he’s going to get old with.  They’ll fight and bicker, and occasionally they won’t see each other for days on end because of work schedules, and sometimes Draco will need to just take off to the Manor or to a Malfoy estate in France so he can brood in private, and from time to time Harry will need to get the fuck away and drown himself in a vat of whisky while he vents to his closest mates, but it’ll be worth it.  Harry’s never _loved_ another person like this before, sharp edges and all, and even though there will likely be bad times, he can’t imagine not having Draco Malfoy in his life.

He pads off to tend to human necessities, having a slash and brushing his teeth until the taste of hangover potion and stale alcohol is nothing but a vague memory, and then he turns on the shower, waiting patiently for the water to warm.  He’s already naked, though not for the usual reasons – despite their intent to shag like rabbits once Apparating to Harry’s flat, randy as fuck and not bothering to hide it, they had only managed a sloppy snog before literally passing out against each other – and so he just removes his glasses and gratefully steps under the hot spray of the showerhead.

He’s not sure how long he stands there with his eyes closed, letting the water pound his shoulders and back, but he registers the sound of the toilet flushing and then Draco’s slipping inside the glass cubicle, circling around him to press against Harry’s naked back.  The soothing beat of water isn’t directly on him anymore, since Draco’s a fucking water hog, but Harry’s still in that sleepy, dazed medium where he doesn’t mind much, because Draco’s warm against his back and he feels comfortable and secure in Draco’s arms.

He hums, appreciating the quiet moment of casual intimacy.  Usually, they only shower together when they’re preparing for their day and running a bit late on time (other than that one time when they’d tried fucking mid-wash, but shower sex is notoriously difficult and obnoxious so they had migrated to the bedroom after a few curses), so having the time to just relax together in the shower on a Sunday is a gift.  He doesn’t even have the urge to turn around and snog Draco senseless; he’s just calm and centred, relishing the easy comfort of simply being wrapped up in his partner’s arms.

He’s still not used to it, to be honest.  Between the constant war he had been forced into from eleven to seventeen, and then being a pillar of hope and justice for an entire population of people, he’s never really been in the position to take comfort or security from another person.  He’s always been the support in his relationships, the one to protect and guide and defend, regardless of the gender of his partner.  He knows that it’s not anyone’s fault, in the end – Harry comes with a stigma due to his past, a preconception that he’s the rock, the defender, the dominant one.  All of his partners, Ginny included, saw him as the _Saviour of the Wizarding World_ as much as _Just Harry_ , despite their best intentions, and because it comes naturally to him, he’s obliged by that label for years.  That’s not to say that none of them had been quick to offer comfort or compassion, because they all had when he’d needed it, but it’s different.  It’s always been on a case-by-case basis: letting Harry be the dominant one in the relationship the majority of the time, until those sparse few moments when the weight had finally just been too much and he had needed a brief moment of respite out of pure desperation.

To be frank, he does a lot of it to himself as well.  After a childhood of abuse and neglect, followed by growing up as the figurehead of a war and manipulated by the people around him (no matter how just the reason), he’s always had a problem with just being taken care of.  He’s had to fend for himself for his entire life, even though Ron and Hermione and the Weasleys admittedly took some of that heavy burden onto their shoulders, but he’s grown in such a way that he’ll always will be entirely too self-sufficient, too wary of losing control over a situation, too terrified of _not being strong enough_.

He’s always been too shaped by the enormity of his position to really allow himself to be completely and totally vulnerable, even in front of Ginny and the kids.  He can’t _be_ vulnerable.  Being vulnerable would’ve meant even more abuse during his formative years.  Being vulnerable would’ve meant death to himself or his loved ones before and during the war.  Being vulnerable would’ve gotten himself and his fellow Aurors killed or worse in the field.  Being vulnerable, even now, would mean that his position as Head of the DMLE wouldn’t be respected or followed, and he can’t afford that in his line of work.  He simply can’t.

But Draco Malfoy is a completely different monster.

Harry’s not sure if it’s because Draco _knows_ what pressure Harry’s under and doesn’t give a flying fuck or if it’s because of the influences of Astoria, his mother, Hermione, or even the unapologetically fierce Pansy Parkinson (or a combination of everything and then some, which is the most likely), but Draco refuses to partake in it all.  Draco’s a proper patriarchal pure-blood, which comes with its own pile of preconceptions, but he’s also a firm believer of equal distribution.  If Draco wants to release the suffocating reigns of his life for a moment, he doesn’t hesitate to ask Harry for it; conversely, he’s practically telepathic in the sense that he can tell just by _looking_ at Harry if he needs to take control and help Harry ease the strangling hold on his life.  Draco does it without judgement or reprisal or hesitation...without a single thought as to whether Harry’s capable of being in control if he’s soaking up that unquestioned reassurance so often.

It’s the most indescribable feeling in the entire world, and he still hasn’t gotten used to the give and take of it.  He suspects that he’ll grow accustomed to it, that it’ll become more normal to simply _accept_ what’s given, but right now it takes his fucking breath away.

Fuck, but Harry _loves_ this man with every molecule of his person, honeymoon phase or not.

“Are you alright?” he hears Draco ask over the sound of the shower, and Harry tears himself out of his thoughts.  For a long moment he doesn’t understand why Draco’s asked such a thing, but then he realises that he’s shaking in Draco’s arms and he’s fucking _crying_ , albeit silently.

Instead of answering, he simply turns in Draco’s arms and kisses him, trying to convey every emotion he’s feeling in the only way he can manage right now.

Judging by how Draco meets him in the middle, Harry figures he understands.

 

—

 

_Saturday, 27 November 2021_

 

It’s a bit of a cliché to say it in bed, but he doesn’t regret saying it.

Draco doesn’t make Harry get off his lap – despite the fact that Harry’s still hard as a rock and fucking _desperate_ to get off, he’s even more fond of letting things stretch out (metaphorically speaking), and Draco knows that.  Instead, Draco just takes deep breaths to steady himself, intercepted with the sporadic shudder when Harry’s arse involuntarily tightens around his softening prick, and absently fondles Harry’s erection, balls, taint, and occasionally his stretched opening as he lies against the ruined bedclothes.  Harry tries not to squirm and buck into the fleeting touches, if only to spare Draco the discomfort of too much oversensitive friction, but he’s only half successful, judging by mix of pain and pleasure on Draco’s flushed face.

It won’t take long for Draco to get hard again anyway.  Harry and Draco have no problems whatsoever in bed despite their ages (and accompanying increasing refractory periods), and Draco is still so consumed by the intensity of his newly-discovered desires that it’s like he’s always raring to go (not that Harry’s complaining, like, _at all_ ).  They’ve shagged on pretty much every horizontal and most of the vertical surfaces in England _and_ Scotland, it seems like, and at the rate they’re going, their pricks are probably going to fall off from overuse.

Which is a blessing to say at forty-one, even with the slowed aging wizards experience.

They don’t have but a few weeks until the children come home for the Yule hols, Draco’s only assisting in a murder case so he’s not bogged down, and there’s no international catastrophes for Harry to be called in for, so they’re going to enjoy the free time with copious amounts of fucking intermixed with the occasional nibble and kip.

Plus, they’ve both taken muscle relaxers and aphrodisiacs for added spice, so there’s that too.

“Are you serious?” Draco asks, voice remarkably even despite his recent orgasm and the bombshell Harry’s just dropped three months into their relationship.  His index finger trails lightly around Harry’s foreskin, the movement easier due to the precome, and Harry can’t help the high-pitched moan or twitch of his hips.  To be fair, he’s warranted in his involuntary movements and sounds, since Draco’s gotten off three times over the past two hours and Harry hasn’t come once, but still.

When he feels like he’s steady enough of mind to not rut against Draco’s stomach in a frantic push to come, he exhales shakily and pushes his hands through his damp hair.  His legs are starting to tingle now due to being sat on Draco’s lap for the past five-ish minutes without moving, but he’s content to wait until Draco’s at least mostly hard before he manoeuvres them into another position.  Right now, Draco’s only about half stiff, and if either one of them moves, Draco’ll probably slip out.

And all his come too.

Christ, he’s filthy.

“Yeah,” Harry admits breathlessly after a long moment of silence, and because he is a bit sheepish about it, adds, “Sorry ‘bout the cliché.  Just sort of...came out of me.”

Draco rolls his eyes, then tentatively sits up, eyes focussed on where they’re connected.  Mercifully, the movement allows Harry to lean back a bit, which grants him the opportunity to unfold his legs from Draco’s hips, his legs stretching out to the warm, damp spot where Draco had been laid out just moments ago.  His feet are pressed against the headboard, so his legs aren’t completely straight, but it’s satisfying regardless.  He happily sighs at the respite, his legs already feeling less tingly, and then immediately hisses with pleasure when Draco circles his hips while simultaneously biting down on the stretch of muscle between Harry’s neck and shoulder.  Harry’s hands dig into Draco’s tangled hair to hold him in place, his arse clenching and making tiny rocking movements as if that’ll get him deeper...not that Draco can get in any deeper, considering that gravity’s doing all the work for them right now.  Riding may not be Harry’s favourite position by any means, but fuck if it doesn’t get all of a prick inside of him with minimal effort.  He quite likes that part.

Draco doesn’t reply, though that’s probably because Harry pulls his face away from his shoulder for a kiss.  Draco’s most certainly hard enough now, so Harry re-folds his legs and then uses his core strength and dexterity to flip them around, Draco on top and Harry quickly wrapping his legs around Draco’s waist to keep position.  Draco’s pushing into him now, shallow but just enough to hit the right spots, and Harry meets him halfway, burning in his skin from the heat and aching with desperation.

Draco’s been a quick study when it comes to Harry’s body, thank the gods.  Draco knows how to hold his own body so Harry has enough room to palm his aching prick while still being pressed against each other as much as they can, knows just the right speed and rhythm to push all Harry’s buttons (moderately quick but not too much, sporadic to keep Harry from predicting the next movement), knows to shift their hips into the right position where he can caress Harry’s prostate with his erection instead of hitting it dead-on (which is quite painful).  While Harry doesn’t bottom as much as he would’ve anticipated in the beginning – considering he’s sleeping with a man who’s only penetrated women before, so it had been easy to assume that Draco would start out with what he was more familiar with – Draco doesn’t use it as an excuse to be no less than perfect, much like everything else he does in his life.

He’s also quite vocal, which is an even bigger aphrodisiac than the actual potion they’ve taken.  Even now, his back is arched and his face is buried in Harry’s neck, his heavy breathing hot against Harry’s skin as words and noise fall from his throat in aborted gasps.  Harry doesn’t need to encourage him; Draco’s more than happy to vocalise what he’s doing and what he likes, and so Harry’s just along for the ride.

They rock against each other in a sweaty, uncoordinated dance, chasing their climax.  Harry knows he’s done for this time, because he’s been on the edge for too long to hold it off any longer, but it’s still not a quick thing even with the potion (getting old is horrid).  He turns his thoughts off, except for _more-there-yes-please-Draco-fuck_ , and simply lets it roll inside him.  He’s always blown away by how it feels to be shagged rather than shag, no matter how often he does it: rather than just the heavy, thick arousal in his hips, prick, and balls that eventually culminates in a relatively quick release, having his prick _and_ prostate stimulated is a full-body experience, every atom in his body heady and electric, as if his arse is the gateway to every pleasurable nerve ending under his skin.

Draco gasps, rasps “ _Fuck_ ” in a frustrated, almost agonised tone, and then pulls out completely, manhandling Harry onto his hands and knees, come beginning to slip from Harry’s hole.  Harry absolutely does not protest, panting out incoherent words of approval and barely able to hold himself up with his own arms because they’re shaking so badly.  Draco pushes back in with only a minimal amount of fumbling, and when what feels like Draco’s entire prick slides against Harry’s prostate, Harry does lose his ability to hold himself up, burying his face into the mattress with a cry and gripping the mussed sheets into clenched fists beside his head.  He _loves_ being taken like this, especially by Draco; there’s something so consuming about it, being pushed into the mattress and fucked within an inch of his life, and Draco’s prick is slightly curved downwards, which makes the angle _perfect_ in this position.  Harry wants to reach a hand towards his own prick, to pull himself off, but he can’t unclench his hands and he’s going to come anyway, completely untouched, he knows he is.  He’s _so close_ , he can feel it in his fingers and toes and aching balls and even in his fucking hair follicles, and it’s just there, just...right—

Every muscle in Harry’s body tightens, then releases, and suddenly he’s coming with a sharp, long moan, every pulse and twitch a goddamn relief, his prick and balls positively _throbbing_ , and he’s practically sobbing from the force of it.  He feels Draco pushing into him shallowly, his hands so tight on Harry’s hips that there’ll be even more bruises in the morning, and Harry can’t feel Draco coming but he can hear it in the thin gasps, the intermittent whispers of Harry’s name.

Draco pulls out, and just in time – the oversensitivity from just that movement alone is on the brink of painful, and Harry jerks in response, falling face-down onto the ruined sheets and heavily breathing in the scent of sex and sweat and heat.  He feels faint, and while most of the aftereffects are focussed in his sore balls, he can still feel the pinpricks of sensation in the tips of his fingers, his arse (which is leaking Draco’s come onto the bedclothes), his nipples, even in his shells of his ears.  Draco falls down beside him face-up with a breathless exhale of air, and Harry turns his head to the side, appreciating both the fresh oxygen as well as Draco’s sweaty, exhausted, gloriously naked body.

Harry’s prick twitches in interest, signalling that the aphrodisiac is starting to work again.

God, he loves magic.

But also, his arse is _not_ going to be up for a round three.

Luckily, Draco’s acknowledging it as well: “If I put my prick in you one more time, it’s going to fall off.”  He looks down, where said prick is glistening with come and the remnants of lube, already twitching back to hardness despite being an angry red.  “If you so much as touch it, I’ll bite your arm off.”

Harry snorts and replies tiredly, “Kinky.”  A limp arm flops over and Draco’s hand hits Harry lazily against his lower back; Harry simply laughs.

They’re quiet for a long moment after that, their eyes locked onto each other in an easy, companionable silence.  Harry’s prick is starting to swell again, and he rolls his hips into the mattress almost absently to alleviate the increasing pressure.  His arse feels tender, but in a pleasant way, though he’s tempted to reach for his wand to do a few variants of cleaning charms.  The two of them have been going at it for almost three hours now, and they’ve probably got another hour until the potion wears off, so he wants to clean up a bit while they’re both rapidly gearing up for the next bout.  He doesn’t though, despite the occasional trickle of come that still seeps from Harry’s hole, because rutting against the mattress is a much better idea than doing housekeeping.  Besides, everything’ll just end up getting filthy again, so what’s the point?

“I do as well, you know,” Draco breathes, his expression calm and aroused and not showing even the slightest hint of discomfort.  Harry’s heart thuds in his chest and his hips still, distracted by the magnificence of those six words.

Harry beams and reaches to grasp Draco’s hand, their fingers threading together.  He can’t stop the grin despite bemoaning, “You know what this means, yeah?”

The corner of Draco’s lips twitch and he drawls, “We have to tell your wife to file for divorce, and we have to come clean to the children.”

“Yep,” Harry replies, popping the last bit.  He wants to ask what Draco thinks _that_ conversation is going to be like, but he doesn’t dare.  They can talk about it once the potion’s worn off and they’ve caught a much-needed sleep, because they have a few weeks until the kids come home for the hols and therefore enough time to develop strategies.

Instead, he reaches for Draco, pulling them together side-by-side.  Draco kisses him softly while Harry wandlessly conjures lube and coats his prick with it, and then he drapes a long leg over Harry’s hip so Harry can guide his erection into where Draco wants him.

As he slowly pushes in, Harry whispers “I love you” against Draco’s soft lips, and when Draco murmurs it back with no hesitation, it feels like coming home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art in this part by [marshview](https://marshview-lim.tumblr.com/).


	7. An Anticipated Homecoming

_Seven_

_Saturday, 18 December 2021_

 

Harry’s practically twitching out of his skin with nerves.

They’ve already hammered out a timeline and the accompanying details with Ginny and Blaise.  They’re all going to settle in for the first day back, Draco with Scorpius at the Manor while the rest of them relax at the Potter Estate, before having a late lunch at two on the nineteenth.  After lunch, they’re going to sit all four of the kids down and go over the whole of it: Harry and Ginny will start with the statement that they’ve filed for divorce, and will sign the paperwork if James, Albus, and Lily are okay with it; then they’re going deliver the news that Blaise and Ginny will be getting married in August, just enough time to create enough of a buffer in the press for a romance; and then Harry and Draco are going to drop the bomb about their relationship and ask for all four of the kids’ blessings.

It’s a lot for a single conversation, and Harry is understandably terrified about it all.

The kids have had a long while to get used to the idea of the inevitable divorce, so that won’t be an issue, and they’re all in favour of Blaise, so he’s not concerned with any last-minute changes of opinion.  It’s Harry’s relationship with Draco that he’s anxious about, because he’s not sure how their kids will react.

Albus will probably be all for it, despite being the prickliest one.  He’s shot down two other potential partners already but this is different, because he already looks at Draco like a second father and at Scorpius like his long-lost twin.  Therefore, Harry’s confident that Albus will give his blessing before any of the other children will even be able to get to speak their piece.

Lily’s almost as easy to predict.  She’s quick to affection, and she has said multiple times that she’ll be happy with whomever makes _Harry_ happy.  And Draco makes Harry so unbelievably happy, so much so that the rest of their collective group – namely Ginny, Blaise, Ron, and Hermione – do nothing but whinge good-naturedly about how blatantly arse-over-tit Harry is for Draco.  Draco hides his affections better than Harry does, but even he is transparent when he lets his guard down in front of their closest friends (Pansy Parkinson, who Harry’s grown to adore, complains constantly about how Draco’s been domesticated _again_ , to Harry’s amusement and Draco’s abject horror).

Anyway, Lily will see it plain as day, in both of their faces, so she’ll likely be on board as well.

It’s the other two that Harry can’t quite suss out.  James is older, more mature, and he’ll be out of the house in half a year, so it won’t be in his face every day.  Because of that, Harry’s hopeful that he’ll take the same path as Lily and just be happy that Harry’s happy.  At the same time, though, he _is_ older, and he’s been subjected to more outside influence over his childhood in regards to the Malfoy family.  Draco and Hermione have been friends for twenty years, but even so, James remembers Ron and Hermione fighting about it better than the other kids do, and he was more aware of the words around him when the Malfoy name was still a bit taboo.  Yes, he gets on with Draco, and he considers Scorpius another brother, and he’s generally a forgiving and kind-hearted young man, but at the same time, he _knows_ about Harry’s past with Draco better than the other kids, has overheard more vile language about the deeds of the Malfoy family, and there might be reservations because of it.  It could go either way, in Harry’s opinion.

Then there’s Scorpius.  Harry knows that Scorpius loves him and the rest of the Potter family, but he’s barely had time to get used to a life without his mother, who Draco had loved more than life itself and had never been shy to show it.  As much as Scorpius puts on a brave face, Harry knows that Scorpius misses his mother like an ache in his chest that will never fade.  In a way, Harry can empathise, but still, Harry doesn’t really remember his own mother, and Scorpius _does_ remember his.  Despite the easy affection and love between them, Harry’s scared that Scorpius will resent the idea of his father moving on so quickly, or balk at the possibility of Harry trying replace his mother.  Logically, Harry knows he can’t replace Astoria in Draco’s heart, and Harry would never even attempt to try, but logic will be inconsequential when emotions are shoved to the forefront.  Harry won’t be surprised if Scorpius suddenly looks at him and sees an usurper, as if Harry’s erasing the memory of his mother, and Harry’s fucking _petrified_ that it’s going to destroy the relationship he has with Scorpius.

Harry loves Draco Malfoy so much that it’s physically painful, loves him more than any other person he’s ever been or will ever be with, but he can’t even fathom the idea of hurting any of the kids for the sake of a relationship.  The kids come first.

Draco’s concurred, thankfully, so at least Harry’s not alone in that regard.  It’s going to be one of the hardest conversations with the kids in their lives, and both of them are understandably on edge because they’re not entirely sure what to expect.

The train doesn’t come in until three, so they’re walking the along the Regent’s Canal to pass the time, bundled up against the cold (and supplemented with warming charms on their clothes).  There aren’t a lot of pedestrians out because of the frigid air, so they’re able to have quiet conversations in the middle of Muggle London.  They avoid the topic of tomorrow’s conversation, opting instead of talk about their plans for the holiday; still, the looming presence of it hangs over their heads, and despite Draco’s general discomfort of physical displays of affection and the possibility of being seen by someone magical, their gloved hands are clasped, giving and receiving the last vestiges of comfort before they part.  It’s the last moment they’re going to have before the world potentially caves in around them, and with the freezing temperatures and the fact that they’re far from most magical hotspots, they’re not too concerned that they’ll be spotted.

They’re chatting about Thornberry, the pillock, and his most recent smear campaign against Hermione when it happens.

Harry’s not ignorant or stupid – despite the fact that he’s largely removed from the Muggle world, he’s the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and because of that he has intimate knowledge of both magical and Muggle politics and the security clearance in both worlds to hear the nitty, gritty details of what’s going on in both worlds.  He knows about the Muggle wars in the Middle East and the refugee crisis that hasn’t stopped despite Brexit and harsh immigration laws from the Muggle Populist government that took over Downing Street and Parliament in 2016.  He knows about the Muggle terrorist attacks that have targeted British cities and the fear that comes from that.  He’s aware that a large amount of people are protesting British isolationism and the rejection of refugees, as well as racism, but that doesn’t change the fact that it still exists in the Muggle world.

The Wizarding world is widely removed from that on all corners of the globe.  Between house-elves and magic itself, there hadn’t been a need for wizards to resort to slavery (though killing Muggles for sport was and still _is_ a popular pastime in some circles), and the terrorism threat from extremists of all religions isn’t even really known in magical communities, due to Wizarding Paganism being the predominant religion.  Even though the Wizarding world is backwards in a lot of ways, the lack of religious wars and racism is one of the few instances where magical peoples are enlightened.  As long as one has magic, or can trace magical lineage far enough back, or marries into magical ways, the Wizarding world is generally accepting of all races as long as they respect the laws of concealment.

That, however, doesn’t change the fact that they’re in Muggle London, and it certainly doesn’t change the fact that Harry’s brown.  Despite the multiculturalism of Britain due to trips abroad (even if that’s harder now with Britain out of the EU), it’s still a time of great fear and stigma due to the Muggle terrorist attacks.  It doesn’t matter that the Evans line was completely English and Irish, or that all but one person in the Potter line was native English all the way back since at least the early 900s and probably further back than that.  Because of his grandmother marrying into an old, powerful pure-blood line in India, he has the skin of an Indian, just like his children do and just like his children’s children will.

So even though he’s as English as they come, with no connection whatsoever to his grandfather’s culture, unfortunately some people see Harry’s particular shade of ‘brown’ and immediately think _illegal immigrant who’s come to kill us_.

“Oi, sand rat!” Harry hears, followed by a round of laughter.  He glances over, where there are six men standing beside a brick wall, passing a fag between them and looking quite cold.  They’re probably just a bit older than James is, which is disheartening, but he’s not going to rise up to the slur.  He’s heard worse before, and it’s not like he can really do anything to them for exercising their right to free speech.

Draco, on the other hand, apparently is though.

He stops dead and glares at the men with so much self-superiority that it makes Harry smile despite himself.  He gently grabs Draco’s forearm and tugs, trying to get Draco to keep moving, but Draco doesn’t budge.  “Pardon?” Draco says in a quiet tone, which sets the alarm bells ringing in Harry’s brain; it’s never good when Draco gets quiet and sharp with his words.  He tends to go for the jugular...or his wand, and the last thing Harry needs right now is to be swept into an international incident right before the kids return from Hogwarts.

“Draco, please, let’s just go,” Harry pleads in a murmur, but Draco ignores him because one of the men straightens up.

The man scoffs.  “I’m not talkin’ to you, you poofter.  I’m talkin’ to the jihadi you’re walkin’ with.”  Then he makes an exaggerated effort to ignore Draco, as if Draco’s worthless, and Draco tenses up like one of those feral peacocks at the Manor.  Harry fights back the urge to laugh again and continues pulling gently at Draco’s arm as the man turns to Harry and says derisively, “Why don’t you go back to your sandbox and fuckin’ die?  We don’t want your kind round here, polluting the air with your stink.”

“You disgusting, uncultured swine,” Draco spits, eyes like ice and fury making his entire body shake.  However, he’s still perfectly articulate as he goes on, “Who do you think you are, making comments like that to your superiors?”  Harry groans while the men predictably puff up in anger as Draco continues in a hiss, “You haven’t an idea who you’re talking to, so why don’t you go crawl back into your dark, filthy hole like the maggots you are and grace the rest of the civilised world with your non-existence?”

A second man, a little reedier and wild rather than hateful, steps up in twitchy steps and asks with disgust dripping from every syllable, “Look at ‘im, defending the rag-head.  Fuck, you shaggin’ that wog, fag?  You’re gonna get fleas from it, if you haven’t already gotten gay cancer.”

Harry’s grip tightens on Draco’s forearm because all of them are riling each other up now, Draco’s left hand tight around his hidden wand and three of the men pulling themselves up to full height as they advance, and for Circe’s sake, the fucking idiots didn’t even bother to wipe off the bloody cocaine on their noses.  At least the other three men look like they’re uncomfortable with how this is going down, and he pegs them as runners once the fists start flying.  It’ll make it easier, having to only subdue three instead of six, though he needs to get Draco out of the way for his own piece of mind – Draco’s a fierce dueller, but he’s not got the disposition for a brawl.

This time, Harry yanks Draco back, causing Draco to stumble, and he puts himself in between them.  He lifts a hand in Draco’s direction without taking his eyes off the potential attackers, telling Draco silently to stay the fuck out of the way, and he feels Draco squeeze his bicep once in acceptance before he takes a few steps back.  Relieved that Draco’s cooperating, _for once in his fucking life_ , Harry says in a loud, authoritative tone that Lily calls his _Auror voice_ , “This is how this is going to proceed.  You’re going to back off and go back to your chat, and my boyfriend and I are going to move along.  If you do not, I will not hesitate to defend myself, do you understand?”

“What’re you gonna do, jihadi, blow us up?” the first man sneers, and shoves Harry with two hands.

Well, that’s good enough incentive for Harry.

Harry grabs the offending arms and hooks his leg on the first man’s left one, sweeping the man’s feet out from under him.  Then he surges forward, ducking the fist that comes at his face and using his upper body strength to twist the second man’s arms behind his back and force him to the ground.  He barely has time to avoid the third man, who stomps toward him like a raging bull, and with a brief flare of wandless defensive magic, he sidesteps him until he can knock _him_ down with a quick kick to the back of his knee.

The whole thing is over in less than ten seconds.

As all of the offenders are face down and groaning (and the other three have done the predicted runner), he drops his knee into the first man’s back, picking up a few pebbles from the pavement and Transfiguring them into handcuffs hastily.  As he cuffs them all in turn, he says evenly, “You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”  He finishes restraining them and then returns to the first man, who’d started the whole business anyway, and crouches down, pressing his weight into him because he’s thrashing and spitting like a cat who’s been sprayed with water.

At least the other two are quiet.  They must know that they’re fucked.

He glances behind him at Draco, who doesn’t seem surprised or in shock.  If anything, it looks like he’s undressing Harry with his eyes, and Harry feels a rather inappropriate spark of heat in his prick at the sight.  Fuck, but this is _not_ the time to get a stiffy.

Ignoring the groaning from two idiots and the furious slurs of another, Harry sighs and says, “Hopefully this goes quick, but if it doesn’t, you’ll have to meet Gin and Blaise at the station for the kids after you give your statement.”  At that, Draco looks a bit less randy and more shamefaced, which is valid – Draco had dug his heels in when Harry had tried to get them away, and now they’re going to be stuck here in the cold for a bit until Harry can hand them over to the Yard.

Honestly.  If Harry misses the train, he’s going to make Draco sleep on the fucking couch for a week.

Draco doesn’t apologise, which doesn’t surprise Harry considering that they’re in front of criminals and he’s proud, but Harry can see the regret in his eyes.  Harry just gives him a reassuring smile, slightly irritated that Draco had fanned the flames but nonetheless unbothered by the whole ordeal.  If it hadn’t been Harry, it could’ve been a lone woman or a child that these men would’ve harassed instead, and considering the cocaine Harry can see in their nasal cavities, perhaps just walking away wouldn’t have done any good anyway.  That’s the positive of it, in any case: three dangerous druggies with a serious case of bigotry are off the streets, and he’ll call that a win.

He pulls out his mobile and calls the Yard, feeling utterly gleeful when the first man looks at him with increasing terror as Harry notifies the Yard that he has three men in custody for an attempted hate crime, drug use and possession, and battery of an off-duty detective chief inspector.

Fortunately, they’re both able to meet the train despite the dreaded bureaucracy.

 

—

 

_Sunday, 19 December 2021_

 

When the Floo chimes at half-two, Harry positively _shudders_ with nerves.

The kids have only been back for twenty-four hours now, bright with excitement and cheer for their short break from school.  They had gotten back to the estate at Godric’s Hollow and had decorated the tree immediately, a family tradition ever since James had first gone to Hogwarts.  The rest of the house is already decorated, courtesy of the elves, but the tree is something that the lot of them do together as soon as they get back from King’s Cross.  It’s not Christmas without it, and therefore it’s the first item on the agenda.  Blaise joined them, as he had the previous year, and after an hour of laughter and teasing and spellwork, they were satisfied with their effort and had meandered off to have a relaxing first day of their holiday.

It’s James’s last official, mandatory Christmas at home, and it’s a bittersweet feeling.  He longs for the days of hugs and bedtime stories and the comforting knowledge that his children are going to be safe in their home for the foreseeable future, but at the same time, he’s so proud of the man James has become.  He’s confident and brash, as only the young can be, but he’s also down-to-Earth and humble, easy to laugh and even easier to forgive.

“Scorp!” Albus yells from the front room, and there’s a bit of a commotion as the two teenagers greet each other with excited chatter.  Harry can hear Blaise laughing, which means that Ginny’s probably downstairs as well, and there’s also a happy trill of greeting from Lily.  The only one he can’t hear is James, but knowing Harry’s eldest, he’s probably chatting with his mates in one of the Floos upstairs.  The Quidditch World Cup is going to be in France this year, and James is going with a group of friends before starting his tertiary studies in Glasgow.

Harry takes a deep breath, steadies his nerves, and then walks out into the din.

“Hey Scorp, Draco,” Harry greets with a thin, but ultimately genuine smile.  Scorpius grins and walks forward, giving him a sideways hug that makes Harry’s heart twist, because he loves this shy, studious young man that he’s had the utmost pleasure of welcoming into the Potter family.  Harry squeezes Scorpius tightly, holding onto this moment, because he’s so scared that it’s going to come crashing down around him.

Harry lets him go, and Scorpius shoots him one last smile before he pads back to Albus, dragging him and Lily towards the dining room.  Harry watches the kids leave, and then he looks at Draco.  Draco looks impeccable as always, in his sleek monotone clothing that is tailored to his body like art, but there’s a tightness to his eyes that Harry sympathises with wholeheartedly.  They’re both on edge, and Harry wants to wrap Draco up and just _breathe_ , both of them drawing strength and comfort from their familiar bodies before they have to brave the kids.

He doesn’t though, Harry simply giving Draco a thin, nervous smile.  Draco’s face doesn’t change, but he does look suddenly irritated, and Harry glances behind him, only to catch Ginny and Blaise rolling their eyes in sync.

“You’re both melodramatic idiots,” Blaise huffs in exasperation, and then leads a laughing Ginny in the direction of the kids’ laughter.

Gloriously alone, Harry advances on Draco, grasping his cold hands and pulling him close.  He drops his forehead onto Draco’s collarbone, exhaling slowly, and murmurs, “God, am I fucking terrified.”

“Hermione thinks we have nothing to worry about,” Draco says quietly, threading their fingers together and pressing an open-mouthed kiss to Harry’s wild hair.

“Hermione says a lot of things,” Harry replies.  Then, with a sigh, he adds, “Then again, she does have the irritating tendency of being right most the time, so perhaps we _are_ being melodramatic idiots.”

“In any case, we should follow the rest of them before they get any ideas,” Draco says, but allows Harry to press a soft, lingering kiss on his shapely lips before they leave the front room.

They head towards the dining room, where there’s the usual large spread of food that had been prepared by the house-elves.  He’s looking forward to the calm tranquillity of an early holiday dinner, chatting about their term and making plans together.  It’s likely that the Yule hols will be a repeat of the summer ones – Scorpius and Albus have regularly spent all of their time together in some place or another, but now the two families have merged pretty seamlessly, with the Weasleys popping in regularly as well.  They do visits to Diagon Alley, play Quidditch as a group (usually at the Manor), see films when the kids have an urge, lounge around to do homework and paperwork while Draco Floos defence barristers and rips them a new arsehole; the kids are very rarely apart, and for the sake of family, the adults follow suit, except when they’re at work.

The closer they get to the dining room, the more apparent it becomes that something is going on.  Harry can hear laughter, loud snorts in between guffaws (which is easily recognisable as James), a shrill gasp that sounds like Lily when she’s excited beyond belief, and Ginny gasping “Oh gods, oh _gods_ ” over and over again in between wheezes.

Harry and Draco stop short, look at each other with identical mixtures of curiosity and wariness, and then finally take the last few strides to the dining room.

The sight is absurd.  Some of it – Blaise doubled over in laughter, Ginny’s freckles all but lost in the flush of her own giggles, James positively _purple_ as he cradles his stomach, Lily bright-eyed and giggling – is expected, just based off the noises Harry’d heard, but other bits are confusing as all hell.  For one, none of the food has been touched, which is virtually unheard considering all the teenaged boys in the room as well as the Potter family’s lack of ‘proper table etiquette’ (according to Draco, anyway).  In addition, Albus is actually _strutting_ around the table, holding out an impatient hand while sporting a smug grin, and though his demands for the other kids to “Pay up, you tossers” goes ignored, he’s still _demanding payment for something_.  Lastly, Scorpius is staring into space with a dumbfounded expression, long blond hair mussed like he’s been running his fingers through it absently, and Harry can all but see his tonsils considering how widely his jaw has dropped.

“What in the world is going on here?” Harry can’t help but ask.

In between chortles, James booms out cheerfully, “C’mon, _lovebirds_ , have a seat!”

Harry hears Draco inhale sharply while his entire body goes ramrod straight and tense, and Harry doesn’t even realise that he’s reached out to squeeze Draco’s shoulder in absent-minded comfort until Scorpius shrieks, “Oh my _God_ , it’s _true_!  It’s actually _true_!”  Harry doesn’t even have a moment to blink before Scorpius is leaping from his chair with a loud shout, said chair falling over with a loud bang.  He runs towards the two of them, long blond hair billowing out behind him in a tangled mess, and then Harry and Draco are crushed together by a fifteen-year-old teenager’s exuberant hug.

It hits Harry like a lorry to the solar plexus, and the fact that his family is _laughing_ and _smiling_ in the knowledge of Harry and Draco being together is such a goddamn relief that he sags into Scorpius’s hug, burying his into the teenager’s wild, vanilla scented hair.  He hasn’t the slightest idea how the kids found out – he knows it wasn’t Ginny or Blaise, who’ve been cackling with glee for months at the upcoming spectacle of watching Harry and Draco awkwardly announce their relationship to the kids – but he doesn’t even really care.  All he knows is that everyone is _happy_ , and fuck if that’s the best feeling in the world.

He’s torn out of it when Albus asks loudly, “How long have you two been shagging anyway?”

Harry’s head snaps so quickly towards his youngest son that his neck cracks, but Ginny admonishes him first: “Albus Severus Potter, you watch your tongue and tone this second.”  Albus rolls his eyes, but despite the fact that Albus is facing away from Ginny, she still adds instinctively, “And don’t you dare roll your eyes at me.  Do it again, and you’ll stay at home while the rest of us go ice skating at Somerset.”

“Mum!” Albus crows, wounded.  “I just wanted to know!  I’ve got fifty Galleons riding on this, and I’ve almost saved up enough for the potions kit I’ve been eyeing!”

“Ex _cuse_ me?” Harry asks loudly, vaguely scandalised but still feeling too boneless with relief to really make much of a fuss.  “Have you been _gambling_?”

As Blaise and James start laughing uproariously yet again, Scorpius pulls away and says with the same air of genuine amazement, “Wait, no—I mean, yes, but also it’s not what you think.”

Harry demands flatly, “Do explain.  _Now_.”

Scorpius gulps and seemingly goes mute, his face flushing with mortification.  Albus sighs with another eye roll, clearly not intimidated (Harry can’t help but feel a twinge of amusement, even though the situation is not exactly funny), and answers, “Once you two actually started hanging out, I bet Scorpius ten Galleons that you two were dating, but Scorpius didn’t think so.  Then when Mr Malfoy, y’know, gave Scorpius _the talk_ , I upped the ante to fifty.  So if you guys’ve been sha—I mean _dating_ since before the summer hols, then I win fifty Galleons, and if you weren’t dating at all, then Scorpius gets fifty.  _Obviously_ you guys are dating, since James saw you two kissing in the front room—”  Which explains how the kids found out, Harry figures, because James wouldn’t have kept that to himself for long, especially if he had been aware of the wager in the first place.  “—so it’s just a matter of _when_ you started up, because if it was _after_ the summer hols, then _James and Lily_ get the fifty while Scorpius and I get nothing.  So _please_ tell me you started before the summer hols, Dad, if you have any mercy on my plight.”

Okay, so James (and Lily, Christ) had been more that just ‘aware’ of the wager.  Harry resolves to sit all four of his kids down as soon as this bizarre, horrifying conversation is done so he can admonish them.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Ginny groans in exasperation, though she’s still snickering.

Harry sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose with his right hand, and then says, “Alright, everyone just take a seat.”

Draco’s still frozen, so Harry leads him to a chair before sitting down beside him.  Because the cat is out of the bag, he grabs Draco’s hand under the table to show unity and gets a faint squeeze in reply.  Harry gives Ginny a quick smile, which is returned, and then chances a glance at Draco.  He’s pale and tense, but there’s a relief in his grey eyes that is comforting to see.

Harry waits until everyone is silent and waiting before he says, “Okay, so your mother and I are getting a divorce.”  The kids, including Scorpius, all nod solemnly, and Harry fights a fond smile.  Ginny might not be Scorpius’s mother, but it’s clear that Scorpius really does consider himself part of the family.

Ginny then says, “We’ve already filed the paperwork; all we need to do is sign, and it’ll be pushed through within thirty days, shorter if Draco hurries it through like a darling.”  Draco rolls his eyes but doesn’t speak – it’s not like he has to, anyway, because Draco has just as much of an interest in seeing the divorce finalised as Ginny does.  After all, once the divorce goes through, Harry and Draco can stop hiding in the shadows and actually start being a couple in the real world, rather than hiding in the shadows in some sort of limbo.  Ginny adds, “Blaise and I want to get married in late August, right before the lot of you go back to school if you’re okay with that.”

There’s another series of nods, the kids barely looking at her in exchange for watching Harry and Draco like they’re some fascinating specimen in a zoo, and so Harry sighs once again and finally gets to the meat of it.  “Look, Draco and I have been dating, yes.”  He’s hit again with a rush of relief when he gets three identical expressions of excited glee as well as another amused snicker from James, so he continues, “I figure that there’s no issue with it, considering how insufferable all of you look, but I still want all four of you to say your piece out loud, so we’re all o—”

“ _Obviously_ it’s okay,” interrupts Albus in an impatient drawl.  “He’s been my other dad for years, so this is awesome.  What I’d _rather_ know is _when_ yo—”

“Quiet,” Draco says with a no-nonsense tone.  Harry glances at him, and despite the impassive expression on his face, Harry can see that Draco’s eyes are bright with emotion.  Harry sympathises, because it’s one thing to understand in abstract that Albus considers Draco another father, but to hear it directly from Albus’s lips is another thing entirely.

Albus pout and mumbles half-heartedly, “Yes sir.”

There’s a beat of silence, and Harry opens his mouth to speak again but is cut off by James, who’s finally stopped sniggering.  For the moment, anyway.  “As long as you’re both happy, I’m good with it too, and since you’re both clearly over the moon considering the show I got in the front room, I don’t think I have anything to worry about.”

Harry feels his cheeks burn with embarrassment, but he doesn’t respond, because Scorpius quips, “I’m definitely okay with it too, as long as you take care of Father.”

“Of course I will,” whispers Harry as honestly as he can convey, and Harry feels a harder squeeze from Draco.  He chances another glance towards his partner, and the expression on Draco’s face is so soft that Harry’s heart flutters in his chest.

Then Lily says excitedly, “I think it’s brilliant, Dad.  I mean, think about it!  We don’t even have to figure out what to call everyone!  Once you all get married, we’ll have ‘Dad’, and ‘Mum’, and ‘Papa’, and ‘Father’!”  Draco splutters in shock, and even Blaise is choking on his oxygen.  Harry and Ginny simply exchange a surprised, but ultimately amused grin as they simultaneously pat their significant others on the back.  Lily rambles on, “Are you going to get married like Mum and Papa?  Because I think that’d be amazing!  Are you going to have more kids too?”

Harry figures he should interject _there_ at least: “I think we’re more than occupied with you four, plus any godchildren that your Mum and Blaise pop out, so you’re going to have to be satisfied with that, Lils.”

She pouts at that, but it doesn’t stick for long.  Blaise finally speaks once she’s grinning again, saying seriously (for once), “Lily, you are under no obligation to call me ‘Papa’, nor are any of your siblings.”

“We know,” the kids chorus in a sing-song tone, horribly off-key but still oddly endearing.  Draco shoots Harry an exasperated glance, probably because Scorpius had joined in without even a moment of hesitation, but Harry can tell that there’s no real ire in it.

“Besides,” Lily says with a mischievous grin, brown eyes sparkling with mirth, “I like that we already have separate titles.  It’s like it was fate!”

“Oh my _God_ , Lily, stop being such a girl,” Albus groans, and then he yelps.

“Don’t kick your brother Lily,” Draco drones.

Lily grins wider and says, “Yes Father, but only if you tell us when you started shagging.”

“Lily Luna Potter!” Ginny and Harry shout together.

“What?” she protests with indignation.  “I want to win twenty-five Galleons!”

Harry gives up, throwing up his arms (Draco’s arm goes up with his, their hands still tangled), and says loudly, “If anyone asks either of us again when Draco and I started dating, _or_ says ‘shagging’ one more bloody time at this table, you’re all going to be grounded until the end of eternity.  Now eat your food before the elves barge in here and start hitting us with wooden spoons.”

Laughter breaks out around the table, the happy and excited laughter of a content and satisfied family, and Harry catches Draco’s eyes, giving Draco the brightest goddamn smile he’s ever smiled.

When Draco returns it, shaky with residual nerves but sincere, Harry knows at that moment that he’s never felt happier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art in this part by [theacebard](http://theacebard.tumblr.com/).


	8. An Epilogue

#### Epilogue

_Wednesday, 24 August 2022_

 

“Honestly, why does anyone even read this drivel?” Draco mutters, tossing the paper to the side in disgust.

Ron snorts inelegantly, face flushed from a lot of whisky and general high spirits, and nudges Harry’s shoulder teasingly with his elbow.  It nearly knocks him in the chin, both from Ron’s drunkenness and because Harry’s sat down at one of the many round tables on the Zabini property, half-pissed and swaying slightly himself.  As Harry’s loose with drink and feels the need to explain his own _Prophet_ subscription, he replies dutifully, “Because it’s important to read all points of view instead of staying in an echo chamber of one’s own beliefs and ideals, and everyone knows that the _Prophet_ is in the pockets of the Clingons.  You’re a barrister – the concept can’t be very foreign to you.”

Draco shoots him a glare, though there’s no real heat in it.

“It’s very entertaining, Malfoy,” Ron adds with a slight slur, throwing a hand out to grab the _Prophet_ as he falls ungracefully into an unoccupied seat.  He focusses on the paper and then laughs again, reciting dramatically, “ _Love of the Century or Improper Fraternisation: A Study in the Budding Relationship Between Department Head Harry Potter and Senior Barrister Draco Malfoy_...how in the fuck did this title even _fit_ , huh?  Skeeter’s really outdone herself this time; I mean, listen to this: _It is well-understood that Minister Granger-Weasley delegates close friends and family to respected Ministry positions, but this is less of her proclaimed_ fairness through democracy _and more of pure nepotism, which is more reminiscent of outdated, barbaric practises put into place by authoritarian rulers in the pre-Enlightened age._ ”  Then Ron sniggers and continues almost gleefully, “Oh, there’s a nugget of wisdom from our good mate Dennis!”

There’s a chorus of boos and _pillock!_ from a fair few of their surrounding friends and family, and Hermione huffs.  “For the love of all that is holy, don’t bring down this lovely wedding with the words of that imbecile.  He lowers the IQ of the entire room.”

“I don’t know what that means, but you’re probably right on the button,” Ron says with yet another laugh, and then lowers his head to press his forehead against the cool wood of their table.  Then he sighs and turns his head towards Ginny, who’s stolen the _Prophet_ and is scanning the article, saying in a mumble, “Hey Gin, what’s an IQ?”

Ginny ignores him, her delicate fingers pushing the single curl of red hair not in the elaborate chignon behind one pale, freckled ear as she scowls.  “ _Lord Thornberry, who is currently running on a fair, balanced platform within the Traditionalist Party of Magical Britain, disagrees with Minister Granger-Weasley’s stance on his issue.  ‘If it was any other member of the Magical government instead of Head Potter, her oldest friend and brother-in-law, and Barrister Malfoy, a close friend and prior co-worker, we would have an entire inquiry at work.  This is an outrage, showing unprofessional favouritism towards her closest companions in exchange for the livelihoods of_ ’—is this even legal?”

“Quite legal, yes,” Draco drawls, but he looks relatively unconcerned even if his lips are pursed in annoyance.  “Freedom of speech is a universal right, and technically he’s correct about fraternisation laws.  However, there is a clause in those same laws that if the Minster clears a relationship, then it is protected by law.  Unfortunately, the average witch or wizard doesn’t read the fine print of all legislation that passes the Wizengamot, opting instead to receive their news from their favourite paper, which leads to Harry’s aforementioned ‘echo chamber’.  Even so, fanatics will still claim nepotism, because the fact is that Harry and I are both in Hermione’s circle, and they’ll claim bias.  Thornberry’s jumping on that train himself.”

“It’s rubbish,” Hermione hisses dangerously.  “Of course I cleared it, just like every other Minister has cleared relationships in the past.  For God’s sake, Neville wouldn’t even exist if his parents hadn’t met and fallen in love while working as partners in the Auror Corps, and God knows where we’d be if it wasn’t for him.”  Neville, who’s nursing a brandy and has a brawny arm wrapped around Hannah’s shoulders, lifts his glass to acknowledge Hermione’s statement.  “Besides, Harry and Draco both have the support of the majority of the Wizarding world, and for obvious reasons.  Public is overwhelmingly in their—”

“Don’t be naïve – there’s a reason that the LPMB has been jumping in seats within the Wizengamot, and it’s articles like this,” Draco interrupts.

“I still think you should plant Dea—” Blaise says nonchalantly.

“No,” Harry, Draco, and Hermione interject instantly.  Blaise harrumphs while most of the surrounding people laugh.  Ron’s snoring by this point, and combined with the boisterous amusement (as well as the fact that both bride and groom are with the gaggle at the head table), they attract quite a bit of attention.

The wedding had been glorious – and wildly elaborate, considering it was _Blaise and Ginny_ – with all of their friends, family, and a few close co-workers in attendance.  The actual wedding had consisted of three hundred and forty-five people in an open pavilion on the Dorset coast, not to mention the countless journalists waiting at the perimeter for guests to leave the anti-Apparition wards for their interviews.  However, the reception is close-knit only, a small venue in the formal, north-east garden of Blaise’s Hampshire ancestral home.  There are maybe seventy people mulling about, close friends and trusted co-workers and children of all ages, though Harry’s pretty sure that the entire lot of Harry’s year at Hogwarts is milling about, if they’re still alive and around that is.

Harry internally sighs, waves back at one of the Scamander twins who’s grinning at him, and then focusses back onto the conversation.

“I still think it’d work,” Blaise is saying, and Harry can tell just by the shit-eating smirk on his face that he’s still talking just to get a reaction from Draco and Hermione (both of whom look ready to start spouting off obscure statistics and law jargon, their mouths set in eerily similar displeasure).  Harry knows that they both are just as aware as Harry is about what Blaise is doing, but they’re also quintessential barristers – they can’t withhold the urge to _argue_ , to outsmart their opponent and have the last word, and it makes it... _problematic_ to get into conversations with them sometimes.

Harry loves them both to bits, but sometimes he wants to bury his face in the sand when a conversation goes down this route.

Pansy rolls her eyes, dark eyes focussed on the dancers that twirl on the floor as she gracefully holds her wine glass.  With a small, dangerous smirk on her blood-red lips, she interrupts airily, “Stop antagonising the wedding party, Blaise, else you’ll be stuck here on your wedding night arguing semantics instead of having the lovely post-wedding fuck with your unfortunate wife.  Besides, there’s more than enough evidence to sow doubt in his high-and-mighty platform without planting evidence, darling, even if Death Eater memorabilia would go smashingly with his interior decorating.  Did you know that his precious son, Thierry, is having an affair with Thornberry’s Under-Secretary for the DIMC?  Considering that little Thierry is in Magical Accidents, with a helpful push from dear daddy five years ago, and has gotten poor Madeline Stromp pregnant, I’d say that you’d have a convincing article in Sunday’s _Prophet_ if you were so inclined.”

Draco’s eyes are wide and vicious, and Harry almost wants to cradle his bits in phantom sympathy (even if he despises both of the Thornberrys).  Draco has quite a few friends at the _Prophet_ , as all barristers do, and he tends to go for the most sensitive parts of a person when he gets malicious.

“Keep that gossip coming and I’ll hire you as my personal investigator,” Draco breathes, a devilish smirk stretching across those delicious lips of his.  “Particularly anything that could have that imbecile thrown in Azkaban.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, can we _not_ talk about that pillock?” Seamus groans, throwing his arms out.  Dean manages to catch one before it goes crashing into Cho’s drink, but Seamus’s other hand hits Theo’s shoulder.  Theo glares, though his eyes are a bit glazed with booze, but it goes ignored as Seamus continues, “I don’t even work in the bleedin’ Ministry or read the paper, ‘cos I’m not a wanker like you lot, so let’s go _dance_.  This is supposed to be a fucking _party_.”

There’s a mad scramble at that, all but everyone standing up (some more steadily than others) so they can partner up and make their way to the floor.  Harry’s already suffered through his four mandatory dances – Ginny, Draco, and Lily, obviously, and then his wobble round the floor with Blaise – so Draco leans down and presses a soft, lingering kiss on Harry’s upturned lips in a short goodbye.  Harry brushes his thumb against the sharp line of Draco’s cheekbones, bespectacled eyes drinking in that beloved face, and Draco’s soft hand pressed over the top of Harry’s own.  There’s a private smile on his lips and a gentle affection in those icy grey eyes, and he can’t help but whisper, “I love you, you insufferable creature.”

Draco’s gentle smile widens, eyes dancing, and then he pressed one more kiss against Harry’s lips before he’s dragged away by a faux-irritable Pansy for a twirl.

Harry watches that familiar, lean body dance with Pansy, losing himself in the fluid rigidity that he displays with utmost precision and elegance.  Only Ron is left, the redhead snoring softly against the table, but he barely notices, much more entranced by the grace of his partner, the shine of faerie-light in his blond hair, the mischievous smirk on his lips as Pansy talks.

He does notice when someone joins him, and he reluctantly turns, slightly surprised by the sight of Narcissa, dressed in the loveliest of evening gowns, her jewellery glistening just as much as the white in her hair.  He’s barely spoken to her outside of a greeting and their idle, polite chat before the wedding ceremony had started, but she’s been in the periphery all day, talking with Aphelia Zabini and Loretta Parkinson or entertaining Hermione’s conversation.

“Mr Potter,” she says with a small, barely-there smile.  She looks so much like Draco that it’s almost unnerving, seeing Draco’s expressions on that delicate, feminine face, and it’s a relief to think it honestly.  Harry will never be a fan of the late Lucius Malfoy, and he’s secretly relieved that he’s not reminded of Lucius when looks at Draco, like he had when they were kids.  He’d love Draco regardless, of course, because Harry loves him first and foremost because of who Draco is as a person, but he wonders sometimes, when he’s reminded of the similarities between mother and son.

Harry gives her a playful grimace but doesn’t correct her greeting – he’s tried for years to get Narcissa to call him ‘Harry’, even before he began dating Draco, but it’s never stuck.  She’s too polite and formal for such things; as far as he knows, she had called Astoria ‘Ms Greengrass’ until the day Draco married her.  “What do I owe the pleasure?” he asks instead, taking a sip of his whisky and letting the smoky flavour sit on his tongue before swallowing.

She tilts her head, emphasising the line of her neck, and he’s still blown away by how aristocratic pure-bloods can manoeuvre their bodies and reactions to display them in the most flattering light.  She’s a beautiful woman indeed, now that she’s content with her life and delighted with the happiness of her son, and every bit of that serenity is etched into the ageing lines of her face.

“It’s getting late, and I’ll be heading to the Manor.  I’ve an early start tomorrow after all, for my Portkey home.  I simply wanted to bid you goodbye.”  She smiles a bit wider, but there’s a sparkle in her eyes that makes Harry vaguely nervous.  He’s seen _that_ look in Draco’s eyes, many times in fact, and it never bodes well.  Then she says, “I do hope that the next wedding I’m attending is yours.”

Harry chokes on his inhalation of air, but Narcissa continues on gracefully, “I know that you are not...prone to elaborate ceremonies like this, but that is quite alright – Draco has already obliged by that necessity with Astoria, so a quiet, private ceremony will do just fine.  Do buy him a silver ring though, as gold won’t compliment his skin tone, and do not hesitate to owl me photographs for my opinion.  I would be flattered if you would oblige an old woman’s desire to be involved.”

He’s frozen when that smile turns sly, and then she says, “Don’t wait too long, Mr Potter.  None of us are getting any younger, and I would very much like to see my darling son marry the man he loves.  Now, I must be off, so give me a kiss and let me find Draco.”  Harry feels like he’s floating through fog as he hazily kisses Narcissa’s offered cheek, and only just manages to say a goodbye before he’s sitting back in his chair, mind whirling.

Honestly, he’s never even thought about marrying Draco.  Between the DMLE, Draco’s cases, the four kids (and Teddy, who’s back in Britain for the time being), and the wedding, he’s barely had time to function as a human being, let alone think that far ahead.  He’s simply been enjoying the time with his expanded family, surrounded by so much love from family and friends alike.  But _marriage_...

Harry looks up at the love of his life, now dancing with a laughing Hermione, and doesn’t even have to ponder it for long because for the first time in his life, he finally feels content and _whole_ , and he wants forever, conclusively and completely, ‘til death does he part.

Harry smiles, at peace and irrevocably content.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Artwork for Meshkol's 'A Natural Conclusion'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16175933) by [Marshview](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marshview/pseuds/Marshview)




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